


come spring time

by tomorrowsrain



Category: In the Heights - Miranda
Genre: Families of Choice, Family Dynamics, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Growing Up, Hurt/Comfort, Loss of Parent(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-11
Updated: 2017-09-24
Packaged: 2018-12-26 08:08:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 26,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12054828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tomorrowsrain/pseuds/tomorrowsrain
Summary: On a Tuesday afternoon in February, eighteen-year-old Usnavi's world turns upside down once again.[Or Usnavi and Sonny through the years, with Usnavi as Sonny's guardian.]





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A few story notes: 
> 
> \- Since the musical ran from 2008 - 2011 and gave no particular dates in-show, I've decided to have those events take place in 2011 and am starting the story six years earlier in 2005. 
> 
> \- Though Sonny is stated as 16 in the official book for the musical, I've made his age 15 as of 2011, making him and Usnavi 9 years apart. 
> 
> \- I have also aged up Vanessa one year so that she is 20 at the time of the musical. 
> 
> \- Title comes from the gorgeous "Rise to Me" by The Decemberists, which I have been listening to on repeat while writing this. 
> 
> Enjoy!

_“Home wasn't a set house, or a single town on a map. It was wherever the people who loved you were, whenever you were together. Not a place, but a moment, and then another, building on each other like bricks to create a solid shelter that you take with you for your entire life, wherever you may go.”_

 

 ― **Sarah Dessen, What Happened to Goodbye**

**_ _**

**_2005_ **

 

The call comes on a Tuesday afternoon. He almost misses it—caught up in the midday rush—but manages to extract the phone from its wall holster just before the last ring. He cradles it between his cheek and his shoulder as he rings up the last customer in line: an impatient Suit who frowns when Usnavi says “yo” into the receiver.

“Mr. De La Vega?” A woman’s voice, calm and professional.

He frowns—no one calls him that. No one really calls the bodega either. “Yes?”

It’s a hospital in Queens. It’s his aunt Mariana. She passed away this morning—sudden, a brain aneurysm, and he’s been named as her next of kin. Can he please come as soon as possible?

He stands frozen with the Suit’s change still in his hand as for the second time in his life the world disappears beneath his feet.

 

**_ _**

 

Ten years ago, Mariana married his uncle Emilio. It was a whirlwind affair, disregarding most of the family’s wishes and warnings. Usnavi remembers his parents talking by the stove, voices low, about how this could only end badly. “Troubled” is the adjective they used to describe Emilio, though eighteen-year-old Usnavi knows now that was generous of them. “Low-life” or “bastard” is probably a better fit. Because one year later, Emilio split, leaving the pregnant Mariana behind—never to be heard from again. Usnavi’s parents took her in, helped her through giving birth to Sonny and finding work and getting back on her own feet. Usnavi slept on the couch for over a year, but he never minded. Mariana was funny and kind and taught him all kinds of cool new raps and beatboxing tricks and he was sad to see her leave.

She eventually relocated to Queens, found a tiny apartment, and took on several jobs. She came over for holidays, little Sonny in tow, but beyond that Usnavi rarely saw her.  She reached out, after his parents died—would show up on the weekends with food and a sympathetic smile—but eventually they drifted apart again, buried in their respective jobs and their separate grief. Last Christmas, she called and told him that she couldn’t make it for dinner, she had to pull another shift at the restaurant.

It’s okay, he told her. Next year.

Next year, she promised. Definitely next year.

And now she’s gone.

_ _

 

He closes the bodega in a rush—heart lodged somewhere in the middle of his throat and refusing to budge. Darts across the street to the apartment to let Abuela Claudia know what’s happened. She’s knitting in her rocking chair, still looking too pale and thin after her latest round of illness. Every time she gets sick, Usnavi thinks his heart’s gonna give out, but she’s always pulls through and she’s got new medication from her doctor that’s supposed to help. They were mad expensive, but he’s just added the cost to the mountain of debt already hanging over him and stopped thinking about it.

“Mariana,” he gets out when she looks up at him. “Mariana’s dead. I have to go to Queens.”

Abuela’s mouth drops open but he’s leaving before she can speak, taking the stairs two at a time and bouncing off the wall at the bottom. It’s freezing out, but he barely feels the bite of the wind on his cheeks as he heads for the subway as fast as the icy sidewalks with allow. Maybe, if he moves quick enough, he’ll be able to leave the impending grief behind—the drumbeat somewhere in the pit of his ribs: _gone, gone, gone, gone._

Two trains to the hospital: The A from 181st Street to Columbus Circle and the N from 57th Street to 30 Avenue. By the time he crosses the threshold out of the February chill, he’s managed to make himself numb. The smell of antiseptic is sharp in his nostrils and the white walls hurt his eyes, but not as much as the oppressive quiet. His parents never made it to a hospital, but he broke his arm in second grade, falling off the monkey bars at the school playground, and spent hours in a hard plastic chair in an emergency room. Vowed to himself that he would never come back, if he could help it—even though one of the nurses gave him a strawberry lollipop after they fit a cast on his arm.

It’s just as awful as he remembers it being.

He leaves a trail of meltwater all the way up to the reception desk and waits impatiently for one of the nurses to finish clacking on her keyboard. When she finally looks up at him, he says, “I’m here about Mariana De La Vega?”

More clacking. A surprised look. “You’re her next of kin?”

He nods.

“Usnavi De La Vega?”

“ _Yes._ _”_ God, what’s the problem?

“How old are you?”

Oh. Well. He guesses that’s a fair question, even as his hackles raise a bit. He’s still short and scrawny for his age—never got the growth spurt that shot Benny up several feet and gave him _muscles_ —and he’s tired of newcomers to the store nervously asking where his parents are and if he’s allowed to ring up their cigarettes and alcohol.

He should probably start growing a beard or something.

“I’m eighteen,” he says now, drumming his fingers on the counter. “Nineteen in two months.” Just in case that makes any kind of difference.

The nurse still looks dubious. Usnavi sighs impatiently and fishes his battered ID out of his wallet. “Here.”

She scans it over quickly before handing it back to him. “Please have a seat. Someone will be here to escort you shortly.”

Yeah, no way sitting is going to happen. He paces instead, a slow circle around the entire waiting room, and stubbornly ignores the stares of other patrons and the receptionists. He’s on his fifth lap when a realization stops him cold: Sonny. Has someone told Sonny? Shit.

The nurse looks up again when he darts back over, sympathetic interest painted all over her face. “Yes?”

“Is there a kid here? About...” Crap, how old would Sonny be now? Eight? Nine?

“I don’t know,” the nurse says and he swallows down his frustration, reminding himself that it isn’t her fault and he probably shouldn’t get himself thrown out of the waiting room by giving into his mounting panic and yelling. “The doctor will have more information.”

No yelling. No yelling. “Okay.”

He goes back to pacing instead and wringing his beanie in his hands. _Finally,_ after what feels like a century, another nurse in teal scrubs materializes and calls his name.

“I’m sorry for the wait,” she says when he hurries over. Her nametag reads _Sonya_ in raised letters. “It’s been a chaotic day. Please follow me.”

The elevator takes them up to the fifth floor. Then down a winding hall. His still-wet shoes squeak on the tile. Sonya fills him in as they walk and each detail hits like a punch: Mariana didn’t show up for work. A concerned co-worker went over to check on her and found her unconscious in the hallway. She was rushed to the hospital but died en route. Doctors were unable to revive her. Sonny is downstairs in the cafeteria with the co-worker. He’s aware of the situation, but became hysterical so they thought it best to give him space to calm down.

They need Usnavi to formally identify her body.

He’s in a daze by the time they reach the room, trying to absorb it all. Just like when his parents died, this doesn’t feel real. Some other Usnavi is standing here, getting ready to go in and identify his aunt’s body. Not him. Maybe if he pinches himself, he’ll be back at the bodega, listening to some kid stammer about buying condoms.

“Take your time,” Sonya says and swings the door open.

He half-expects the room to be empty and cold, but there is a doctor waiting, scribbling on a clipboard.

“Mr. De La Vega?” he asks and Usnavi nods.

He doesn’t want to look at the bed. He can’t help looking at the bed.

Her eyes are closed and she could be sleeping if not for the sallow, waxy pallor to her skin. His parents looked the same way, lying side by side in bed, and just like that he can almost feel death hovering just across from him—it’s freezing breath ghosting over his face.

“That’s her,” he says, wrenching his own gaze away and trying to ignore the shivering in his lungs and spine. “That’s Mariana.”

The doctor nods and scribbles some more. “Thank you. We can leave you alone if you’d like some time to…”

“No,” Usnavi snaps, cutting him off, and all but runs back into the hall. He doesn’t need to linger, doesn’t need to hold her hand and cry or whatever else it is grieving families are expected to do.

She’s _gone._

The doctor follows, closing the door behind him.

“I’ll prepare an official death certificate for you,” he says, gentle. Usnavi nods, barely listening anymore.

A man is lingering in the hallway, dressed in a faded suit and carrying an old briefcase.

“Mr. De La Vega?” he says when the doctor departs. Usnavi really wishes people would stop calling him that.

“Yes?”

“My name is Carlos,” the man extends a hand, “I’m Mariana’s lawyer. Do you have a moment to talk?”

Usnavi nods again, still mostly on autopilot. It feels like he blinks and he’s sitting in a room across from Carlos. If he blinks again, he might be back at the kitchen table in his parent’s apartment, Abuela Claudia’s hand in his and another sympathetic man in a suit spreading papers across the wood for him to sign. He keeps his eyes carefully open and grinds the heel of his boot hard against the floor to keep himself grounded.

“Fortunately, Mariana left a will,” Carlos begins, all business. He passes a folder over to Usnavi. When he opens it, the text just looks like a mass of gibberish—legal jargon he can’t hope to decipher.

“What’s in it?” he asks, fighting the urge to the tear the corners of the pristine paper with his nervous, twitching fingers.

Carlos fiddles with his glasses, habitual. “She left everything to you, with the specification that some things are to be given to Sonny when he turns eighteen.”

He’s not surprised, but he doesn’t want to think about going to Mariana’s apartment and packing all the remnants of her life away into boxes. “And Sonny?”

Carlos hesitates. Usnavi feels a sharp prick of anxiety in the pit of his stomach. “She named you as his legal guardian, providing that you are willing and over eighteen.”

The prick turns into a stabbing knife. “W-what?”

Mariana must have made a mistake. He can barely look after _himself_ on a good day. What the hell is he supposed to do with a _kid?_

“She was very clear,” Carlos says and takes the folder back, flipping through several pages before turning it around. And there is Usnavi’s name in bold, fancy print. “She wants Sonny to be able to stay in New York.”

“And if I don’t accept?”

“Then we will contact your aunt … Rosa?” He nods in confirmation and Carlos echoes it. “In Boston. If she also refuses, he will become a ward of the state.”

Usnavi stares down at his name again. The letters are starting to swim. He moves his heel again, back and forth, and lets the resulting squeak drive away a little of his mounting panic. Keeps it up after that: _squeak, squeak, squeak, squeak._ After a few moments, Carlos clears his throat and says over the sounds, “Mr. De La Vega—”

“Usnavi.”

“Usnavi,” Carlos corrects. “I understand that this is a big shock and a big decision. It would be perfectly understandable if you decided to refuse, especially considering your age and the amount of…”

“What’s involved?” he blurts, forcing his leg to still and deciding to bite his nails instead. God, he wants a cigarette, even if Abuela Claudia would be furious and it’s probably really bad form to smoke in a hospital. “With becoming Sonny’s guardian?”

Carlos relays a ton of confusing information about paperwork and a probate court and a judge reviewing the will to decide if he’s actually fit to be a guardian and _then_ stuff about a social worker to help with the transition. Usnavi’s head is spinning and he drops his face into his hands, wondering if he can hold himself together by pressing hard enough on his skin.

_I can’t do this._

Except Mariana believed he could. Except if he doesn’t Sonny is going to be carted off to another city and an aunt they barely know or dropped into foster care. Except this has never been a choice and he knew it the minute he saw his name in the will.

“Okay,” he whispers, muffled by his hands. He sucks in a deep breath and holds it until his lungs start to burn. Lets it out slow as he sits up. “Okay. I want to take him.”

Surprise flashes loud and blatant across Carlos’s face. “Are you sure? While we do need to move quickly, I understand if you’d like some time to think things over and—”

“I want to take him,” Usnavi repeats, firm.

“Okay,” Carlos agrees. “I’ll set up a court date for this week. Just … the judge still may not rule in your favor. Please remember that.”

Usnavi shrugs. “Gotta try, right?”

The gets him a small smile and nod and then Carlos is gathering up his papers and putting them back in his briefcase. He slides a rumpled business card across the table. “That’s my number. I’ll be in touch, okay? We can also arrange a meeting with Mariana’s landlord, so you can come clean out her apartment.”

Usnavi stuffs the card into his wallet so he doesn’t lose it and shakes Carlos’s hand good-bye. He’s still waiting to wake up. Any second now, right?

As soon as Carlos leaves the doctor returns and Usnavi’s swept back up in another whirlwind of activity. Here’s the official death certificate; here are forms authorizing us to send your aunt’s body to a funeral home; please sign here, as well, Mr. De La Vega so we can transfer your aunt’s possessions over to you—he goes into a weird fog halfway through and next jolts back to awareness standing at the entrance to the cafeteria. A nurse points to Sonny, sitting a few tables away, and says something about giving them a moment. Usnavi just has to make his feet move.

_C’mon, one step at a time, you can do it._

The woman sitting with Sonny is about Mariana’s age and still wearing her restaurant uniform. Her eyes are red-rimmed, but she smiles weak and wobbly at him when he reaches their table. Sonny doesn’t look up, tracing idle patterns on the tabletop, and Usnavi feels a sharp pang of sympathy looking at the top of his curly head.

“I’ll go get us some more hot chocolate,” the woman decides and hurries off.

Usnavi takes her seat, wondering what the hell he’s supposed to say. “Hola, Sonny. _”_ Silence. “Yo soy Usnavi. ¿Tu primo? ¿No se si me recuerdas?”

“I remember you,” Sonny says in English, barely above a whisper. He’s still staring at the table like it’s the most interesting thing in the world.

“Good! Um, that’s good,” Usnavi says. “I don’t know what the doctors told you...”

“Mamá’s dead,” Sonny says flatly. No emotion. Maybe this is what he sounded like after his parents died? He remembers that the explosion came much later, once the shock had time to wear off.

“Yes, she is,” he says now and tries to decide if Sonny would be okay with Usnavi putting a comforting hand on his shoulder. Probably better not risk it. “I’m so sorry.”

“What’s gonna happen to me now?” Sonny asks.

“You’re gonna come stay with me.”

No reaction.

The co-worker returns with two steaming cups of hot chocolate and sets one down in front of Sonny, rubbing his back as she does. “Here you go, darling.”

She means well, Usnavi knows, but he can’t help the flare of irritation at her babying tone, as if she was talking to a three-year-old. He bites his tongue as she mouths _can we talk_ and follows her back toward the door, hopefully out of earshot.

“I’m Michelle,” she says. “I worked with Mariana.” She shakes her head. “I can’t believe this. It was so _sudden.”_

“Yeah,” Usnavi mumbles and he knows he’s being rude, but he can’t be this woman’s shoulder to cry on right now. He’s _exhausted._

“She was just lying there in the hallway…”

“Thank you,” he interjects. “For looking after Sonny.”

“Of course,” she says and puts a hand on his arm. “If there is anything I can do to help, just let me know. We all loved Mariana.”

 _So did I._ “I will. Thanks. I’m gonna take Sonny back to my place for now.”

“That’s good.” She fishes a scrap of paper out of her purse and scribbles on it in sharpie. Presses it into his hand. “That’s my number. If you need anything, don’t hesitate to call. Please.”

“Thanks,” he says a third time, stuffing the paper into his pocket.

She nods and squeezes his arm one last time before going to say good-bye to Sonny. Far as Usnavi can tell, Sonny doesn’t acknowledge her either. He takes another deep, burning breath and forces himself back over to the table. He can do this. Mariana believed he could do this.

“Wanna get outta here, chico _?_

That gets him a nod, at least. He checks with the doctors, who promise to let him know when the funeral home has collected the body, and then takes Sonny’s hand to guide him outside. To his surprise, it’s dark and snowing again. He pauses at the edge of the sidewalk to watch the flurries cast in silhouette as they drift past the streetlights. In spite of the noise of traffic around them—the crunch of tires on ice and the blaring horns of the taxis and the murmur of a hundred languages—the atmosphere feels ethereal. Like the whole world felt after his parents died: tilted and off-balance, never to be the same again.

He squeezes Sonny’s hand and starts the trek towards the subway.

 

_ _

 

Sonny goes straight to bed when they finally make it home—not a word to anyone. Usnavi lays out blankets on the couch and decides he’ll worry about it tomorrow. At the table, over cups of tea, he explains the situation to Abuela: how Mariana died and the will and becoming Sonny’s guardian. The tears and the panic finally hit, then, taking him out between one choked breath and the next like a speeding car. He babbles about money and having to transfer Sonny to a new school and where are they all going to sleep and he misses Mariana, he should have called her more often why didn’t he do that why didn’t he just pick up the goddamn phone and now she’s _gone_ and she’s left him her _son_ and he’s going to screw this up so badly he knows it...

Abuela rubs his back and hums gently to him until he manages to calm back down.

“Paciencia y fe, mijo _,”_ she says. “We’ll figure it out. You’re not alone.”

He wipes at his still-leaking eyes with the back of his hand. “Okay,” he says, voice cracking. “Okay.”

“Get some sleep,” Abuela advises, cupping his face. “Everything can wait until tomorrow.”

“Okay,” he repeats, a broken record.

He expects to lie awake until dawn, mind a churning hurricane, but he’s asleep almost as soon as his head hits the couch cushion, exhaustion pulling him under quick and merciful.

 

_ _

 

The next week is absolute chaos. Benny and Nina pull shifts for him at the store while he logs what feels like hours on the phone with the funeral home and Carlos and Mariana’s landlord, trying to get all the jagged pieces to fall into place. He’s got a hearing at the probate court on Friday and the funeral is on Sunday and somewhere in there he’s supposed to find time to come clean out Mariana’s apartment. Plus, a million other details like housing arrangements and how the hell he’s gonna pay for all of this and the fact that Sonny has still barely said anything, even though Abuela Claudia has been slowly drawing him out of his shell.

Usnavi’s still bracing for a meltdown of epic proportions, which just adds to all the stress, really. He and Abuela Claudia stay up talking late into the night, sorting through everything, trying to plan. Camila gets wind of the situation and starts showing up with dinners and a promise to help him figure out funeral details. He’s grateful to her, to everyone, and he’s overwhelmed, but mostly he’s just tired and frustrated. He _just_ did this, it feels like, and he doesn’t wanna dig his black suit out of the closet to see if it still fits; he doesn’t wanna sit through another funeral service and watch another casket get lowered into the ground; he doesn’t wanna go into Mariana’s apartment and try to determine what parts of her life are worth keeping.

Mostly, he wants to curl up in a ball on his bed and ignore all of this in the hopes that it’ll go away.

But that isn’t an option.

So, Thursday: he bundles Sonny up and hikes out to Queens. Mariana’s landlord is waiting with keys and heartfelt sympathies that Usnavi appreciates but is tired of hearing. Sonny freezes in the doorway to the apartment, brown eyes widening.

“I don’t wanna go in there,” he says.

Usnavi doesn’t know how he didn’t see this one coming, considering he’s only set foot back in his parent’s apartment once since their deaths and that took him weeks. “Sonny…”

 _“No,”_ Sonny snaps, clenching his hands into shaking fists at his side. “I’m _not_ goin’ in there.”

Usnavi raises placating hands. “Okay, okay. Yo me encargo. You can wait out here.”

Sonny deflates at that. He can’t seem to make himself actually leave or cross the threshold so he sits down cross-legged in the hallway. Usnavi leaves him there, unsure of what else to try. The landlord assured him that she would clean the apartment, no need to worry about that, so Usnavi focuses on getting stuff into boxes, beatboxing quietly to himself to ward off the oppressive stillness in the air.

To donate: Marianna’s clothes, kitchen utensils, dishes, pots and pans, and everything else practical that he can find.

Into a different box to keep: Mariana’s jewelry, an envelope full of old pictures; candles for Saint Margaret of Clitherow and Saint Rita of Cascia; some hip-hop cassettes and a battered Walkman; and drawings and school projects of Sonny’s.

In a final two boxes: all of Sonny’s clothes; a battered stuffed lion; half a dozen books with crinkled pages and cracking spines; and an assortment of school supplies and notebooks.

It doesn’t seem like much, at the end of it all. Just a tiny, pathetic glimpse of a life that once was.

He calls Benny from the still connected house phone to come pick them up in one of Mr. Rosario’s taxis. Together, they load up all the boxes in the trunk and the backseat.

“Anything you wanna say before we go?” He asks Sonny before he locks up.

Sonny hesitates, chewing on his lip, then shakes his head and hurries away, head bent. Usnavi presses his fingers to his mouth and then touches the wood of the door.

“Alabanza a Mariana _.”_

He doesn’t look back.

 

_ _

 

Friday: he puts on a suit he bought from a secondhand shop and struggles for ten minutes with the tie in front of the mirror before Abuela Claudia rescues him. She promises to look after Sonny for the day and reassures him that it’s going to be all right. He rides the A to the probate court with butterflies kicking up a riot in his stomach.

Carlos meets him on the steps and the room they’re shown to is stuffy and too hot. The judge stares down at him over silver spectacles and the whole thing feels like a scene from the crime dramas that Abuela watches sometimes.

The judge grills him just like the ones on TV do. What is his living situation like? How much money does he make? How many hours a day does he work? How does he expect to provide for Sonny? What makes him think he’ll be a good guardian?

He stammers his way through his answers as best he can, knowing that not much is gonna work in his favor. He lives in a tiny apartment and he barely makes ends meet working over twelve hours a day in the bodega. He’s eighteen and he’s never had to look after a kid before. He lost his own parents only two years ago and the grief is still raw and sharp sometimes, like glass shards in his chest.

“But I love Sonny,” he says at the end of it all, forcing himself to stand still and confident—shoulders back, chin up. “And I loved Mariana. She wanted him to be with me instead of getting uprooted and shipped off to some strange new city. So please, don’t take him away?”

Years pass before the judge nods and agrees to grant him custody, on the provision that he be assigned a social worker who will conduct monthly check-ins for the first year. He catches himself on the table as his knees go weak with relief and agrees to the terms without hesitation. There is a literal mountain of paperwork to sign, but Carlos is good about pointing out what he needs to pay attention to and translating some of the legal jargon for him.

And just like that, Sonny is his.

On the train home, he presses his forehead to one of the metal poles and weathers a private, near silent earthquake that starts in his shoulders and rattles all the way down to his feet. Terror scrapes claws across his lungs and his heart is a staccato beat he can practically feel against his ribs.

Sonny is his. Sonny is _his._

_Dios ayúdame._

 

_ _

 

At the apartment, Abuela Claudia folds him into a tight hug and whispers “I’m proud of you _,_ mijo _”_ as he cries into her shoulder.

Sonny is maddeningly, ceaselessly silent.

 

_ _

 

Sunday: the funeral, quiet and intimate. Mariana’s local priest presides over a short service. He gets up in his too-small suit and manages to get out a few, halting words. Mariana’s co-workers and friends are more loquacious, gushing through tears about how kind and amazing and wonderful she was—all the things that people say about the dead. He’s glad for them, that they can grieve for Mariana like she deserves while he remains numb.

 _Shock,_ Camila told him after his parent’s service, _takes a long time to wear off, Usnavi. It’s okay._

They bury Mariana next to his parents. Sonny throws the first handful of dirt onto her grave. His eyes are red but dry and as the priest says _“ashes to ashes and dust to dust”_ Usnavi takes his hand.

Sonny squeezes back hard. It’s snowing and the stillness of the graveyard feels like it extends to the whole world.

 

_ _

 

The week after: more chaos. He has his first meeting with the social worker—a lovely young woman named Juanita—and makes the painful decision to move out of Abuela Claudia’s apartment and back into his parent’s place. Abuela Claudia, Benny, and the Rosarios all come over to help with cleaning and airing the place out and getting the furniture arranged.

He takes down the leftover things that remind him too strongly of them and doesn’t sleep at all the first night in their old room, but it gets easier.

He picks a new school for Sonny at Juanita’s suggestion and nearly cries when he goes to register him and is handed a whole new mountain of paperwork. It takes him an entire evening to fill it out all out, one painstaking step at a time, and he’s still not sure if he did any of it right. Turns it in anyway and apologizes for all the places he had to scribble out answers and start over. The administrators are sympathetic and he hates how he must look to them: an eighteen-year-old kid with exhaustion weighted on his shoulders and a nine-year-old ward, tripping over his normally eloquent words in his too-big shirt and his worn-out jeans.

But Sonny gets enrolled and his new fourth grade teacher seems nice and understanding of his situation.

Life goes on. He goes back to working a full day at the bodega and learns how to cook for two, though Abuela Claudia still comes over for dinner most nights and insists on commandeering the kitchen. Sometimes he thinks he hears Sonny moving around in the night, but hasn’t figured out if he should knock on his door or not.

He’s still waiting on that explosion.

_ _

 

Turns out it doesn’t happen all at once, but in waves, and when the grief finally escapes the walls Sonny’s built up around it, it comes out angry. He gets detention five times over the course of a month and starts three fights. At home, he’s belligerent and defiant and rude, refusing to listen to just about anything Usnavi says or any of the minimal ground rules he attempts to establish.  

Usnavi tries to be patient, give him space. His own grief is often angry, too, so he can relate. But after the fourth fight and a suspension, he’s at the end of his rope.

“This has to stop,” he snaps to Sonny once they get home. He had to close the bodega for a whole afternoon to go down at pick him up from school and he’s already fuming. “I get that you’re angry, mijo _,_ but you can’t go beating up other kids.”

“Don’t call me that,” Sonny snaps right back. “You ain’t my father.”

“No,” Usnavi agrees. “I ain’t. But I’m still in charge here and you need to start respecting that.”

“Why?” Sonny says, voice rising. This is the loudest Usnavi has ever heard him be. “You’re never here! You don’t _care!”_

“That’s not true,” Usnavi argues back, unconsciously matching him in volume. “I’m _trying,_ Sonny, but—”

“And you ain’t my mother, either!” Sonny shouts, overriding him. “You don’t know anythin’!”

“I know plenty! I know you can’t keep gettin’ into fights or you’re gonna get expelled and then we’re _really_ up shit’s creek.”

“Right, ‘cause it’s all about _you.”_

“That’s _not_ what I said, I—”

“I hate you!” Sonny yells and grabs one of his mother’s decorative bowls. The sound of it shattering against the floor feels louder than a bomb going off.

Usnavi _breaks._

“ _Enough!”_ he roars, barely recognizing his own voice, as warped as it is by fury. “ _Go to your room!”_

Sonny opens his mouth to protest and Usnavi cuts him off, pointing towards the bedroom door. _“NOW.”_

Sonny finally obeys, slamming the door behind him hard enough to rattle it in the frame. Usnavi is still so angry he’s shaking and he can’t deal with the pieces of his mother’s china all over the floor. He shrugs on his jacket and goes across the street to Abuela Claudia’s.

“Can you watch Sonny?” he asks as soon as she opens the door. “Please? I need to go for a walk.”

Her face twists in concern. “Is everything alright?”

“We had an argument. He’s supposed to stay in his room.”

“Okay,” Abuela Claudia says. “I’ll look after him.”

“Thank you.”

Back across the street, he lets himself in the back door to the bodega and takes a packet of cigarettes. Fuck it.

The sun is setting outside and he picks a direction at random. Thinks about going to the cemetery but he would probably just end up shouting at Mariana’s headstone and that won’t help anything.  So he walks and he smokes and he walks some more: all the way up to Fort Tryon Park and Castle Village, then back down The Little Red Lighthouse under the GWB. He stops there to smoke his third cigarette of the night and watch the rhythm of the black water.

His father used to smoke, before his mother made him quit, and Usnavi can remember the shadow of him out on the fire escape at night. He thinks that may be why he started two years ago, that memory. Because more than the nicotine, it’s the ritual of it—an old, comforting familiarity: the weight of the cigarette between his fingers, the sharp taste on his tongue, the steady inhale and exhale of his lungs.

It calms him and he imagines that he’s expunging his lingering anger with the smoke that streams from his mouth.

By the time he’s finished, he’s freezing and guilt is creeping in. He shouldn’t have yelled like that and Sonny’s right—he _hasn’t_ been around much. Besides, there has to be a better way moving forward than just screaming at each other and breaking things.

An idea forms on the way home and he lets himself in quiet, wincing again when he sees that it’s well after eight o’clock. Abuela Claudia is dozing on the sofa, her knitting in her lap, and he shakes her gently awake.

“He’s still in his room,” she informs him. “And dinner’s on the stove.”

“Thank you,” he whispers through a sudden, powerful swell of affection.

She rubs a callused thumb across his cheek. “You two are going to okay, mijo _.”_

“Are we?” he asks.

She smiles and winks at him. “I have a feeling. Now, help me up. I think my joints are slowly turning into wood.”

“Maybe if you took your medication…” he says as he gets her on her feet. She swats his arm but thankfully lets him help her down the stairs and across the street to her apartment. The winter has been hard on her and he surreptitiously checks her radiators to make sure they’re all functioning while she settles in front of the television.

“I’m not going to freeze,” she huffs at him when she notices. He still drapes her blanket over her lap for good measure. “With those old things, I run more of a risk of catching on fire.”

“Yeah, they’re temperamental. That’s why I’m checking.”  

She shakes her head at him, but she’s smiling. “I’ll let you know if they act up. You can come give them a talking to.”

“Damn straight.”

“Goodnight, mijo _.”_

He leans in to kiss her on the cheek.  “Goodnight, abuela.”

Back home, he counts to ten before he knocks on Sonny’s door. There’s a long pause and then a very sullen, “come in.”

Sonny is lying on his bed, facing the wall. Usnavi leans against the doorframe. “I’m sorry I yelled.”

Sonny sits up and looks over at him in surprise. “Really?”

“I’m still mad as hell at you,” Usnavi says dryly because he doesn’t see a point in lying or trying to sweep this under the rug. “But I shouldn’t’ve yelled.”

Sonny twists the hem of his shirt in his hands, staring at his lap. “I’m sorry I yelled, too. And broke stuff.”

Usnavi sighs. “Look, Sonny, I know you’re angry. You got a right to be. And sad, and whatever else you wanna feel. But you can’t take it out on other kids.”

“I know,” Sonny says. His shoulders are still tense, hunched up around his ears.

“So, one time offer only—take it out on me.”

That earns him another startled look. “W-what?”

He steps back into the living and spreads his arms wide. “You need to let it out somehow, so c’mon. Have at it. I can take it.”

Sonny gapes at him for a long moment and this probably isn’t in any parenting how-to books, but whatever. He figures this will be more effective than the hours he spent screaming into his pillow, trying to muffle the sound so Abuela Claudia wouldn’t hear.

Finally, Sonny gets up from the bed and Usnavi braces himself for shouting, punches, whatever Sonny might decide to hurl at him. But Sonny’s expression crumples and when he rushes forward it’s only to throw his arms around Usnavi’s waist and bury his face in Usnavi’s stomach. Usnavi staggers back a step and returns the embrace, carding fingers through his curly hair. His shoulders are hitching and even muffled by Usnavi’s shirt, his sobs are loud and visceral—pulled from deep within his gut and wracking through his whole body on the way out of his mouth.

“It’s okay,” Usnavi says, heart aching. “ _Dejarlo salir._ I’ve got you.”

Sonny continues to weep, showing no signs of letting up, and Usnavi lowers them carefully to the floor, pulling Sonny into his lap and rocking them back and forth.

“It’s n-not _fair,”_ Sonny hiccups out, curling his fingers tight in Usnavi’s shirt.

“It isn’t,” Usnavi agrees.

“I want her back.”

“I know, mijo _._ I know.”

The sobs start anew and Usnavi tightens his grip, pressing his cheek to the top of Sonny’s head as his own eyes start to sting. He wishes that he could somehow reach inside Sonny and carve all the pain out so that he would never have to feel it again.

“I’ve got you,” he repeats. “I’ve got you. Just let it all out.”

Eventually Sonny cries himself into exhaustion, going limp against Usnavi’s chest. Deciding that he doesn’t want to leave Sonny alone right now, Usnavi nudges him to his feet and stands so he can lift Sonny into his arms. The kid is deceptively heavy, but Usnavi spends his days lifting boxes and is way stronger than his scrawny frame would suggest. Balancing Sonny on his hip, he turns the lights off in the living room and makes sure the front door is locked before heading into what he is still thinking of as his parent’s bedroom.

“You good in here for tonight?” Usnavi asks as he deposits Sonny on the bed.

Sonny nods and slumps onto the pillows, crawling under the covers. He’s still in his jeans and shirt, but Usnavi is too tired to make him change into pajamas. Gets under the covers fully clothed as, well.

“Usnavi?” Sonny asks after a long moment, voice hoarse.

“Yeah?”

“Is it always gonna feel like this?”

“No,” Usnavi says, closing his eyes. “It’ll get better, I promise.”

“So … we’re gonna be okay?”

“We’re gonna be okay.”

“How do you know?”

He reaches out into the darkness and cards his fingers through Sonny’s hair. “I have a feeling.”

 

_ _

 

**_2006_ **

Juanita is super nice, but Sonny doesn’t understand the point of these meetings. They happen every month and they always make Usnavi super nervous. He cleans the whole apartment top to bottom and raps to himself all frantic, like he needs the noise to stay calm, instead of when he does it to make Sonny smile or is in a good mood. He’s louder, then, moving his hands along to the beat and Sonny always likes watching him. On Appointment Days, he wants to grab Usnavi by the arms and insist that it’s gonna be okay, but he doesn’t think Usnavi’d believe him.

He always has to meet with Juanita alone and she asks him all kinds of questions. Some of it makes him angry: “are you getting enough to eat?” or “do you have enough money for school supplies?” like Usnavi can’t take care of him. Like just ‘cause Usnavi’s kinda young, he’s stupid or something. Sure, things are hard sometimes, but they were hard with Mamá, too, because money doesn’t grow on trees and not everyone gets the same amount.

Sonny’s always thought that was unfair, but Mamá insisted that’s just how life is. He doesn’t know why Juanita and the people she works for don't get that.

“Why are you so hard on Usnavi all the time?” he says today.

It’s a weirdly mild day for July, so Juanita decided they should take a walk in Bennett Park. She bought him an ice cream, too, which was really nice, but he’s still upset.

“It’s not on purpose,” Juanita says. “We just have to make sure that you’re being looked after. Usnavi has never taken care of a child before.”

“Neither had Mamá before she had me,” Sonny points out and Juanita laughs.

“I suppose that’s true. But Usnavi also has a lot on his plate.”

“Yeah, includin’ you people,” Sonny grumbles, since Usnavi’s not here to lecture him about being impolite.

“It won’t be for much longer,” Juanita says. “Just a few more months.”

“How many months?”

She pauses and Sonny can practically see her counting in her head. It’s weird. Usnavi always knows the answers to numbers stuff right away. “Seven more months.”

“That’s _not_ a few.”

“Am I really that bad?” Juanita asks, though she doesn’t sound mad. That’s enough for Sonny to be honest.

“No,” he admits. “But you make Usnavi nervous.”

He maybe shouldn’t’ve admitted that but he ain’t about to take it back. Juanita sighs. “We don’t mean to. We want you to be happy here and we certainly don’t want to move you somewhere else.”

“I _am_ happy here.” It wasn’t really true a few months ago, but that’s okay. He wasn’t happy anywhere.

“That’s good,” Juanita agrees. “And it means there isn’t anything to worry about.”

“Try tellin’ Usnavi that.”

“I will,” she says and nudges him. “Now tell me more about school. Do you have a favorite subject?”

He rambles for a while about English and Science (they’re fun) and Math and History (less fun), plus his teacher, Mrs. Perkins, who is awesome even if she ignores him half the time he raises his hand ‘cause he “needs to give other kids a chance to answer.” Juanita listens and asks some more questions, but none of them seem like digs at Usnavi. He still throws in there that Usnavi helps him with his homework, just to be sure.

Usnavi is waiting at the store when she drops him off and they step outside onto the curb to talk for a moment. Sonny watches from his perch on the counter, and he can’t hear what they’re saying but Usnavi’s shoulders are relaxing a little and he’s nodding, so Sonny figures it must be okay. Then Juanita departs with a wave and the bell jangles as Usnavi comes back inside.

“Did you have a good time?” he asks.

Sonny nods. “She bought me ice cream.”

“That’s good,” Usnavi says and starts wiping the counter. He wiped it three times this morning and once right before Sonny left and it’s practically sparkling.

“I said I was happy,” Sonny blurts out, because he normally doesn’t like sharing stuff he talks to Juanita about, but he thinks Usnavi might need to hear that one.

Usnavi looks up in surprise. “Really?”

Sonny nods. “It was the truth.”

Usnavi smiles, crooked. “Cross your heart?”

Sonny solemnly draws an X across his chest and Usnavi’s smile widens.

“That’s good,” he says. “I’m happy, too.”

“Cross your heart?” Sonny teases and Usnavi draws an X.

“Cross my heart.”

Sonny laughs and Usnavi ruffles his hair, then shows him what some of the weird buttons on the cash register do and lets him have a free soda.

It isn’t a bad day, after all.

_ _

 

Usnavi is acting _weird._ Sonny’s been here for ten months now and he’s never seen Usnavi this _quiet._ He seems almost somewhere else. Like his body’s here but his mind’s far away. He normally ruffles Sonny’s hair when Sonny gets home from school and lets Sonny sit on the counter and tell him about his day, asking all kinds of questions about his lessons and the friends he’s making and stuff. But these past two days, it’s like Sonny’s suddenly turned invisible. No hair ruffles, no affectionate teasing—it’s scaring him.

Christmas is in three weeks so maybe that’s it? His parents are gone, too, so maybe he’s missing them in the same way that Sonny’s missing Mamá: like there’s a giant hole in his stomach that just won’t close. He keeps thinking about all the stuff that they’d be doing now if she was still alive. Lights up all over the apartment and a little tree in the corner with popcorn on it and ornaments they always pick out at the dollar store. It _hurts,_ knowing none of that will happen this year, but he’s coping.

Maybe he should ask Usnavi about it?

‘Cept when he tries that, he just gets a really fake smile and a “I’m fine, Sonny, just tired.” Which, c’mon, Sonny’s ten, he’s not _stupid._ First of all, Usnavi almost never calls him ‘Sonny’ unless he’s really frustrated. It’s always _mijo_ or _chico,_ and Sonny grumbles about those nicknames sometimes, but he _knows_ that Usnavi knows he likes them. That’s why he keeps doing it.

Second, Usnavi’s _real_ smiles always make deep crinkles in the corners of his eyes like Mamá’s used to and that one isn’t even close. He doesn’t call Usnavi on it, though. Usnavi may only be nine years older than him, but he’s an adult and adults always lie about this stuff.

That night, he makes dinner like he always does and leaves it on the stove, but he sits in the dark in his room until Usnavi gets home. He can usually track Usnavi’s progress almost perfectly: _thump_ of shoes hitting the floor; rustling of fabric as Usnavi hangs his jacket and hat on the hooks by the door; _click click click woosh_ as the stove turns back on to reheat dinner; _creak thud_ of cupboards opening and closing; the rattle of dishes being set on the counter; _screech_ as one of the kitchen chairs is pulled back from the table and Usnavi sits down.

Tonight, there’s only the _screech_ of the chair.

Sonny creeps out of bed, as quiet as he can be, and opens his door enough to peer out. Usnavi is sitting at the table with his head in his hands, still dressed in his shoes, coat, and hat. His shoulders are hitching, like he’s crying, but Sonny’s never seen Usnavi cry. His eyes got all wet at Mamá’s funeral, but that wasn’t _crying._ Not like the kind Sonny still does sometimes: where it takes your whole body to get the tears out.

He wants to go out and wrap his arms around Usnavi’s waist, because Usnavi’s hugs always make him feel better so why shouldn’t his do the same? But he’s not sure if he’s meant to see this. If Usnavi would be mad at him being up so late.

So, he closes the door and climbs back into bed. Eventually, he hears the _click click woosh_ and relaxes a little, but his heart still feels all tender and sore in his chest.

The next morning, there is no breakfast waiting for him on the stove and Usnavi’s hat and coat are still hanging up by the door.

Sonny panics.

Mamá died sudden, they said. They tried to keep it from him, but he overhead them talking about finding her in the hallway. Like she was about to leave for work and just … stopped. Stopped and never got back up again.

What if that happened to Usnavi? The door to his bedroom is still closed. What if he’s in there on the floor like Mamá?

He chews nervously on his nails, wondering what he should do. It’s winter break right now, so he doesn’t have to be at school. But he can’t just sit here in the apartment not knowing if Usnavi’s okay. He has to go in.

It still takes him several tries to turn the door knob and open the door. There’s no body on the floor, but there is an Usnavi-shaped lump under the covers. He squeezes his eyes shut while he counts to ten and then runs over to the bed, because it’s easier to just get this over with. Usnavi’s lying on his side and his eyes are open, staring at the wall, but he’s blinking and there’s air coming out of his mouth.

_Oh, thank God._

“Usnavi?”

No response. Sonny’s invisible again.

He takes a deep breath and pokes Usnavi’s shoulder. “Usnavi?” Still nothing. “You’re scaring me.”

Usnavi pulls the covers over his head.

Sonny stands there for a moment, stuck between the urge to shake Usnavi and yell until he snaps out of whatever this is or just give in to the panic clawing at his insides and cry. In the end, he’s saved by the front door opening and the familiar shuffle of Abuela Claudia’s footsteps.

“Abuela!” he says, running back into the main room. “ _¡_ Abuela, algo está mal con Usnavi! _”_

“I know, mijo _,_ ” she says, unusually quiet as she hangs her own coat up next to Usnavi’s.

“Is he sick?” Sonny asks because vague answers aren’t gonna cut it.

“No.” Abuela opens the fridge and starts taking ingredients out to make breakfast. “He’s sad. Today is a difficult day for him.”

“Why?” Sonny demands and then freezes, because he knows. He remembers, distantly, Mamá getting a phone call three years ago and crying on the sofa for hours. “Wait … is it his parents?”

Abuela nods and fires up the stove. She seems older in the pale morning light—the lines on her face deeper and full of shadows. “It’s a difficult day for all of us.”

Sonny doesn’t really remember Usnavi’s parents, but they must have been good people to raise someone like Usnavi. It’s nice, in a sad way, to know that lots of people miss them. That Usnavi doesn’t have to be sad alone. He hopes that the same came be said for Mamá. It’s been almost a year—are people still missing her like he is?

Now isn’t the time to ask about that, though, he knows. “What can I do?”

“He just needs time, mijo _,_ ” Abuela says. “I’ll keep an eye on him, but he should be better by tomorrow.”

Another realization hits. “But what about the store?”

Abuela sighs and shakes her head. “It will have to stay closed today.”

“But … we can’t _afford_ to close!”

He’s ten, he’s not _stupid._ He knows what the stamps on the envelopes Usnavi gets in the mail mean—the big red letters that say PAST DUE. Mamá used to get them, too, and it would make her go all quiet the same way it does Usnavi. He knows money is tight and taking him in hasn’t helped any. Though Usnavi’s never said anything, Sonny still worries he’s a burden. That it’s his fault Usnavi is working himself to the bone and is so tired and stressed all the time.

“We have to,” Abuela says. “Sometimes these things happen. We’ll figure out how to get the money back. Paciencia y fe _.”_

Abuela’s always saying that, but Sonny’s not gonna wait around and wring his hands when there’s something he can do. He’s spent almost every afternoon in the store since he came to live with Usnavi. He knows how to work the cash register, even if he can’t really see over it when he’s standing behind the counter, and he knows how to add stuff up that people buy. He’s pretty sure he can even figure out the coffee machine, he’s seen Usnavi do it so many times, and he _definitely_ knows how to make a killer slushy.

He’s got this.

“Where are you going?” Abuela says when she notices him hurrying over to the door.

He stands up on his tiptoes and pulls Usnavi’s hat off the rack. “The store.”

“Oye _,_ Sonny, you can’t run the store by yourself!”

“It’ll be fine,” he insists, putting the hat on his head. It immediately slips down over his eyes but he gets it in a decent position after fiddling with it for a minute. “Look after Usnavi.”

Abuela yells after him in Spanish, but he takes the stairs two at a time, Usnavi’s keys jangling in his hand.

He can do this. He can help.

Of course, it doesn’t entirely goes as planned. Daniela and Carla have to help him with the grate and also express concerns about the whole thing. But they don’t try to stop him as he fishes a stool out of the back and sets it behind the counter.

“It’s just for a day,” he says, turning the register and the coffee machine on. “And it’s for Usnavi.”

 _That_ seems to get them, like he knew it would. Everyone loves Usnavi. It’s just a fact.

“Call us if you need anything, okay?” Daniela insists. Sonny waves them off.

And okay, it’s a lot harder than he thought it’d be. He screws up a few coffee orders and counts change wrong a bunch of times, but he plays up the cuteness factor (the hat helps) and that his cousin is sick and that seems to make everyone really patient. No one wants to yell at a kid unless they’re a total asshole.

The Rosarios, Benny, Nina, Daniela, and Carla also conduct regular check-ins to make sure he’s doing okay. He appreciates their concern, even if it’s a little smothering. None of them ask about Usnavi and he wonders if the store was closed last year and the year before that. Probably. Usnavi didn’t have him before, but it’ll be okay now.

He closes at dinner time because everyone else is heading home and Mrs. Rosario puts her foot down and insists that he’s not staying in the store by himself. He doesn’t protest because he’s _exhausted._ How does Usnavi do this every day?

He has to crawl up the last staircase up to the apartment and his arms and legs feel like they’re about to fall off.

He’s surprised to see Usnavi sitting at the kitchen table. He still looks terrible: too pale and hair and clothes messy and a blanket wrapped around his shoulders like a cape. His eyes are kinda empty, too, but he’s awake and he’s got a bowl of soup in front of him and he actually looks over when Sonny closes the door.

Abuela Claudia isn’t here, but Sonny bets that’s Usnavi’s doing. He never likes other people to see when he’s sad, either. Figures Usnavi’s the same way.

“…Sonny?”

“Hey,” Sonny says as he hangs the hat back up.

“Where the hell have you been?”

Oh good, Abuela kept his secret.

“Runnin’ the store.”

Usnavi’s eyes widen and his mouth drops open. “ _What?”_

“We couldn’t afford to close,” Sonny insists.

He doesn’t know what he was expecting, but it’s not for Usnavi’s face to twist up all wrong like he’s trying not to cry. “That doesn’t mean _you_ should be takin’ care of it. Jesus, Sonny, I’m so sorry I—”

Sonny rushes over and claps a hand over Usnavi’s mouth. It seems like the only thing that’ll be dramatic enough to get his point across. “It’s okay. You take care of me all the time. I can take of you for a day. And I’m ten-years-old. I ain’t a _baby.”_

Usnavi laughs, a wet, choking sound, and wipes at his eyes.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

Sonny figures now is an okay time to wrap his arms around Usnavi’s neck and squeeze. “I got you,” he says, an echo of what Usnavi always says to him on bad days.

Usnavi bends down to hug him back, beard tickling Sonny’s cheek. “You do. Thank you, mijo. _”_

Sonny gets his own bowl of soup when Usnavi releases him and Usnavi is still quiet, retreating back into himself, but Sonny’s not worried.

Things’ll be better tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and feedback make my life and are a huge motivation to keep writing, so please take a moment to leave one if you can! Also feel free to come hit me up on tumblr at [wobblyspelling](http://www.wobblyspelling.tumblr.com).


	2. Chapter 2

_“Well, sometimes home is a person.”_  
― **Beth Revis, A Million Suns**

 

 

**_ _**

**_2007_ **

 

School, he has decided, can be really _stupid._ Especially parent-teacher conferences. First there’s always the look of surprise when Usnavi shows up. The fumbling handshakes and the awkward, “are you Sonny’s father…?” To which Usnavi usually just shrugs and lets them flounder.

And then there’s sitting outside and waiting while they read the long list of his problems to Usnavi. Does Mr. Carver know that Sonny can hear every single word he’s saying? The door ain’t that thick. And this bench is super uncomfortable. He kicks his legs, listening to the squeak of his sneakers against the tile, and tries to ignore the twisting in his stomach as Mr. Carver rambles on about how he’s defiant and unconventional and if he keeps up this behavior he’s gonna “risk failing or expulsion.”

“Why?” Usnavi asks, surprising Sonny. He’s got his carefully measured voice on. The one he always uses when he’s real angry but trying not to show it.

“Why?” Mr. Carver echoes.

“Why would you expel him?” Usnavi says.

“He’s argumentative in class and he never completes the homework properly…”

There’s a slap of papers hitting a desk. “All of these answers are right.”

“Well, yes,” Mr. Carver admits. “But the students were expected to follow certain instructions when completing the assignment, which Sonny failed to do. And this is not the first assignment that he’s chosen to ignore proper procedures on.”

“Well, why does that matter?” Usnavi says. “Ain’t you trying to teach students to develop their own learning methods? Instead of just blindly following instructions? Critical thinking, right? That’s what it’s called?”

Sonny stops swinging his legs. Usnavi’s voice is getting sharper and all of the air is stuck in Sonny’s lungs—like if he doesn’t hold completely still in this moment, the world will shatter or something.

“There is a balance, Mr. De La Vega,” Mr. Carver begins, all condescending in a way that Sonny _hates,_ “between critical thinking and being able to follow instructions.”

“And that’s worth _expelling_ a kid over?” Usnavi snaps. “Sonny turns everything in on time and he gets all of the answers right and because he doesn’t do it _your_ way, you’re gonna _fail him?”_

“Well…” Mr. Carver splutters. Usnavi runs right over him.

“Because if that’s true, then I’m pulling my kid out of your class and havin’ a talk with the principal that I’m sure you won’t like.”

And just like that all the air flies out of Sonny's mouth like someone’s socked him in the stomach. _My kid._ Usnavi said _my kid_ and he has no idea how to feel about that.

Good, he decides after a moment. Really good.

“Perhaps I was a little extreme,” Mr. Carver backpedals. Usnavi snorts. “But the argumentative behavior in class at least has to stop, Mr. De La Vega. It’s very disruptive and it sets a bad example to the other kids.”

“Fine,” Usnavi agrees. “I’ll talk to him. But if he’s making good points, Mr. Carver, maybe you should try listening to him once in a while?” Silence. Sonny fights down the urge to punch his fist in the air. Usnavi _owned_ him. “Is that all?”

“That’s all,” Mr. Carver says, a little rushed. “Thank you for your time, Mr. De La Vega.”

“Uh-huh,” Usnavi says and a chair screeches on the tile.

Footsteps. The door clicks open and Usnavi exits, pulling it closed behind him. Sonny tries to make his expression blank but Usnavi arches a knowing eyebrow. “You heard all of that, huh?”

“…yeah.”

Usnavi sighs.

“You were awesome?” Sonny tries because he’s not sure how to say _thanks for standing up for me_ without it being weird. And _you called me your kid what does that mean_ is even more awkward.

“Thanks,” Usnavi says, a little wry, and bends down, jerking his head to indicate Sonny should climb on his back.

Sonny grins. Maybe eleven is too old to be accepting piggyback rides, but he doesn’t care. Once he’s settled he helps Usnavi adjust the multicolored scarf Abuela Claudia knit him for Christmas last year and wraps his arms around Usnavi’s neck.

As they exit out into the darkening street, Usnavi says, “you need to stop being so argumentative in class.”

His voice is flat and offhand, like he doesn’t really mean it. Sonny hides a smile against his arm. “But I _am_ makin’ good points. And Mr. Carver gets all red in the face ‘cause he _knows_ I’m right.”

“Well then, never mind.” Usnavi is smiling, Sonny can hear it, and he laughs, delighted.

They walk in silence after that, weaving their way through the evening crowd towards the subway station. Sonny waits until they’re seated next to each other on the train to broach the subject that’s still buzzing around in his mind like an angry bee.

“Um … you called me your kid?”

Usnavi tenses and Sonny winces. They’re affectionate with each other, sure, but they ain’t great at talking about _feelings._ But Usnavi doesn’t shut down the conversation.

“Yeah … I did. Was that um … not good?”

“I liked it,” Sonny says, risking a glance up at Usnavi. Usnavi looks back down at him, stunned, but there is totally a smile creeping into his eyes. “It’s okay, uh, if you wanna do it again.”

Usnavi ruffles his hair. “Okay, mijo, I’ll keep that in mind.”

Another long moment of silence, then Usnavi’s arm settles over his shoulders. “And I’m proud of you, you know that right? You don’t need to be anythin’ other than yourself. No matter what people like Mr. Carver say.”

Sonny’s stomach twists again, but for different reasons this time. He shifts closer into the warmth of Usnavi’s side and closes his eyes. “I know. But I like hearin’ you say it. You should do that more often.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, too,” Usnavi says, all affectionate and quiet. Which means he _really_ means it.

Sonny keeps his eyes closed and listens to the rush of wind outside the subway car as it speeds them towards home.

Okay. Maybe parent-teacher conferences aren’t that bad after all.

Maybe.

_ _

 

Holidays are usually hard, even two years after. Especially because Usnavi gets all quiet and withdrawn, too. Sometimes Abuela Claudia will come over and try to get them out of their funk, but mostly they just spend them on the couch, watching dumb cartoons and eating Chinese takeout straight outta the cartons.

This past Halloween, Usnavi had tentatively asked if Sonny wanted to go trick or treating with some of the other neighborhood kids, but he turned it down right away. It wouldn’t be the same without Mamá to help him pick out a costume and then add her own flair to it: a bright purple bandana when he wanted to be a pirate and a space helmet made out of papier-mâché when he wanted to be an astronaut. Her go-to costume was a poodle skirt she made herself and what she called “50s hair,” all big and poofy. She would follow him around the neighborhood and carry his bag when it got too heavy, and then they’d spend ages on the floor of the living room, sorting through all the candy.

And he knew that Usnavi would do his best, but it wouldn’t be the same. Plus, Usnavi looked really relieved when he said no. So instead of that, Usnavi brought up surplus candy from the bodega and they watched some _Goosebumps_ episodes, and that wasn’t bad, either.

But this Thanksgiving, the Rosarios invited them over for dinner and Usnavi decided that they should try to be social. So that’s how Sonny ended up here, stuffed with more food than he’s ever eaten in his _life,_ and surrounded by people. It’s kinda weird, but he doesn’t mind. He likes the noise: Nina telling Abuela Claudia about school and Mr. and Mrs. Rosario arguing good-naturedly about something in the kitchen as they prepare dessert. Usnavi stepped out onto the fire escape for some fresh air a few minutes ago, saying that he needed to clear some room for the massive pie Mrs. Rosario baked. Benny went with him.

Sonny is debating disturbing them, but now Nina is turning to him and asking about school and he’s suddenly all tongue-tied. 

“Uh … good?” he says.

Which is true. Things’ve been better with Mr. Carver since the parent-teacher conference and he _has_ actually been trying to save up all his arguments for after class instead of just blurting them out in the middle of lessons. He’s pretty sure that Mr. Carver is still really exasperated with him, but there haven’t been any more detention slips or angry red pen messages on his assignments. So, he’s gonna count that as a win.

“Do you have a favorite subject?” Nina asks.

“Um … English?” he decides after a moment and watches Nina’s eyes light up.

That kicks off a discussion about books, which he is always excited to talk about. Nina is reading all kinds of important sounding things that he files away to look up later at the library and meanwhile he shares his current favorites: _The Lightning Thief_ and _A Wrinkle in Time_ and _The Chronicles of Narnia._ Nina agrees those are all very good books and Sonny feels something like pride swell in his chest. Nina is _so_ smart, everyone says so, and if she says his book choices are good maybe that means he isn’t completely hopeless after all.

Mrs. Rosario interrupts the conversation to announce that dessert is ready and could Sonny please go fetch Usnavi and Benny? He nods and bounces off into the living room and towards the window to the fire escape, still flying a little high off the book discussion. But as he gets closer and sees the shapes of Benny and Usnavi outside, he slows. Benny’s got a hand on Usnavi’s shoulder and Usnavi’s head is bent low and sad.

Through the open window, Sonny can hear the murmur of their voices.

“…just sayin’ I’m worried about you. You gotta take a break, man.”

“A _break?_ ” Usnavi says and the words crack right down the middle. “Very funny.”

“This isn’t good for you,” Benny presses. “You’re _exhausted,_ Usnavi. Between the store and Abuela Claudia and Sonny … keep this up and you’re gonna crash and burn. Hard.”

Sonny’s stomach plummets to his shoes.

“I don’t have _time_ for that,” Usnavi argues, wiping a hand across his face. In the dim living room light shining through the window, the bags under his eyes look bruised black and his face is sunken and too thin. “None of those things … I can’t just _drop_ any of that stuff. It doesn’t work like that.”

“Taking a break ain’t dropping it.” Benny squeezes his shoulder again. “You could ask the Rosarios to look after Sonny for a few days, maybe? That might take some pressure off.”

Sonny wraps his arms around himself. His stomach is still in his shoes and now he feels cold all over. He _knew_ it. A burden—that’s what he’s always been.

“ _No,”_ Usnavi says, but he hesitated for a second and it doesn’t make any of this better. “I’m fine, Benny. I’ll be fine.”

Benny sighs and shakes his head and Sonny _can’t_ listen to whatever else he might be about to say. He backs up, trying to keep as quiet as possible on the creaky floorboards, and then re-enters the room at a full run.

Usnavi predictably looks up, startled, and Benny’s mouth snaps closed with an audible _click._

“Yo, dessert’s ready,” Sonny says, hoping his voice doesn’t give him away. Or the fact that his eyes are pricking with the beginnings of stupid tears.

Usnavi smiles one of those awful fake smiles. “Thanks, mijo _.”_

He climbs back through the window first and ruffles Sonny’s hair. Benny is next and Sonny manages not to flinch under his usual shoulder squeeze. He follows them back to the table and dutifully takes a piece of Mrs. Rosario’s homemade pumpkin pie, but it tastes like cardboard when he eats it. Like his body’s too sad to make his taste buds work. Everyone’s talking about grown up stuff like work and the weather, so fortunately none of them notice that he’s quieter all of a sudden.

On the walk home, though, Usnavi _definitely_ notices and nudges him gently. “You okay?”

Sonny wasn’t gonna saying anything, but his mouth opens and blurts out words without his brain’s consent. “You’re okay, right? With me being here?”

Usnavi frowns, eyebrows knitting together in confusion. “Here?”

“Livin’ with you,” Sonny elaborates.

“Of course, I am,” Usnavi says—no hesitation this time. “Why?”

“No reason,” Sonny says quickly. No way he’s gonna tell Usnavi he was eavesdropping. Understand, mouth? _Behave._ “Just … wanted to be sure.”

Usnavi slings an arm across his shoulders and plants a kiss on the top of his head. He’s maybe a little bit tipsy from the wine he had at dinner, even though Sonny read that people aren’t supposed to be drinking until they’re twenty-one.

Maybe it’s different for holidays, though.

“I’m very happy you’re here, mijo _,_ ” he says. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Sonny nods, but his stomach doesn’t untwist and if he’s really, brutally honest with himself—he doesn’t believe Usnavi.

Not this time.  

 

**_ _**

**_2008_ **

****

Fuck, why does this shit always happen to _him?_ He reaches up to rake a hand through his hair, nearly pushing off his hat before he remembers that he’s wearing it and drops his arm back down to his side. The call is still ringing and ringing and ringing. He hangs up and punches in the Rosarios’ number again, turning to pace another line across the waiting room.

Abuela Claudia had a fall this afternoon, prompting a visit to the ER, and in the chaos, he totally forgot to call the school and let them know what’s happened. Which means Sonny will be getting off the bus in about ten minutes to find the bodega closed and not know what’s going on. And the Rosarios _aren’t picking up._

He wants to scream, loud and long, but that will probably get him unceremoniously thrown out of the hospital so through sheer force of will he manages to keep his mouth shut. Dials a fourth time.

_Come on, come on, come on…_

“Hello?”

“Nina, thank God.”

“Is everything okay?”

“It’s Abuela Claudia. I had to take her in to the doctor’s…”

“What’s wrong?” Nina cuts in immediately, voice tense with worry. “Why didn’t you call sooner?”

“She fell and I think she might have sprained her wrist, but it doesn’t look too serious. They wanted to take some X-rays to be sure. And I’ve been _trying.”_

“Sorry,” Nina says, backing off. “I just got home and my parents are out for the afternoon running errands.”

“It’s fine,” Usnavi reaches for his hair again. Remembers the hat again and stops. “Can you watch Sonny?”

A long, awful pause that gives him all the answers he needs. “No, I’m so sorry. I just came back to pick up a few supplies, but I have a debate club meeting this afternoon.”

He closes his eyes and blows out a slow, rattling breath. Screaming won’t help. Screaming won’t help. Screaming won’t help. “Okay. I understand.”

“What about Vanessa? Have you tried her?”

That throws Usnavi immediately off-balance. He’s barely seen Vanessa in close to three years—just in passing at the bodega. A few brief words exchanged on the rare occasions she’s come in with Nina. But none of those conversations implied that she would have the patience to spend an afternoon with a fairly rambunctious twelve-year-old.

“I don’t have her number…”

“I’ll call her. Just give me a minute.”

Nina hangs up before he can reply. He finally gives and pulls his hat off his head so he can run a frustrated hand through his hair. Five minutes until Sonny gets home now and Usnavi officially becomes the worst guardian _ever._ Probably Juanita shouldn’t have stopped checking in on him every month.

His cell vibrates in his hand, startling him out of his spiraling thoughts. “Hello?”

“Vanessa’ll do it,” Nina announces without preamble. “She said she’d meet Sonny at the bus stop.”

He stops pacing. “Really?”

“ _Yes._ ”

“She doesn’t mind?”

“No. She said it was fine, but you’ll owe her a free coffee.”

“When have I ever charged either of you for coffee?”

“It’s the principle of the thing.” A pause. “I have to go. Keep us posted on Abuela?”

“Of course,” Usnavi says and listens to the click of Nina hanging up the phone again.

Right. Vanessa’s watching Sonny for the afternoon. That sentence still feels weird to think, but he doesn’t have time to dwell. A familiar doctor has appeared in the doorway and his brain immediately switches to concern for Abuela and worry about how on earth he’s gonna pay for all of this.

It stays in that mode for the next two hours while he listens to the doctors confirm that it is indeed just a sprain, but a fairly bad one and they’ve put Abuela’s arm in a brace for the foreseeable future. Then there are the bills to sort out—more debt to pile on the mountain. He doesn’t even look at the numbers, in spite of Abuela’s protests that it’s too much. And _then_ there is the subway ride home: helping Abuela stay balanced on the escalator at the stop on 181st Street and then carefully guiding her home and getting her situated.

“I’m fine, mijo,” she assures him, and it’s only when she takes his hand does he realize that they’re shaking violently.

“You almost weren’t,” he whispers and leaves it there because he doesn’t want to say _I can’t lose you, too_ and feel the words rip his heart on their way out of his mouth.

They’re pointless anyway. Someday he _will_ lose her—that’s the inevitability of death—but he never wants it to be _today._

“But I _am.”_ She squeezes his hands. “And I’m going to be.”

“Okay,” he agrees, too tired to argue. “Do you need anything else before I go?”

She huffs. “No. I can take care of myself _,_ my legs aren’t broken. You should get some rest.”

He kisses her on the cheek and promises to come over first thing in the morning to check on her. It isn’t until he’s opening his front door that he remembers Vanessa.

She’s sitting at the kitchen table, books spread out around her, and she looks up as soon as he steps inside—face tense with worry. “How’s Abuela?”

“She’s fine,” he says, shoving his hands in the pockets of his jeans and rocking on his heels.

It’s weird, having someone else here. Even Nina and Benny don’t come over that often. Should he sit down across from her? Offer her something to drink even though she’s been here all afternoon? It’s nine p.m. so dinner is probably out…

Vanessa arches an eyebrow and right. More detail. “It’s just a sprained wrist, but she needs to wear a brace for a few weeks.” Fuck it, he’s too tired to worry about social etiquette. He sinks into a chair and wipes a hand over his face. “Though whether she’ll actually _do_ that is another story.”

Vanessa’s lips quirks knowingly. “Most stubborn woman in the world.”

“Tell me about it,” Usnavi grumbles. “Everything go okay here?”

Vanessa nods and tucks a long strand of hair behind her ear. He suddenly realizes that the last time he saw her, it was just past her shoulders—now it cascades down her back in a black waterfall.

“It was fine. Sonny’s pretending to be asleep. He was worried.”

“I’ll check on him,” Usnavi says and Vanessa nods again. Silence creeps in and lingers.

What the hell is he supposed to say now? They’ve never been close, him and Vanessa. She’s always been Nina’s friend, tagging along to the park or trailing after her into the bodega. A little more subdued than Nina’s dazzling, sometimes hotheaded brilliance, but still confident. Self-assured in a way that Usnavi’s never known how to be.

He's sure that both of them are gonna go off and change the world.

“Well, I’d better get going,” Vanessa finally says, starting to gather up her books.

They’re textbooks, Usnavi notices, and he blurts out, “this is your last year, right?”

She’s one ahead of Nina, if his memory serves him correctly, but he could definitely be wrong on that. She nods, though.

“Yeah. Finally.”

“What are you gonna do after you graduate?”

She shrugs, purposefully casual. “Dunno. Daniela offered me a full-time job at the salon so I might work there for a while and save up.”

He tries to picture her gossiping with Daniela and Carla while she cuts women’s hair and it doesn’t quite fit. Maybe rolling her eyes instead. She’s always been a little on the grumpy side. For some reason, that makes him smile and he ducks his head to hide it. “Sounds like a good start.”

“Yeah,” Vanessa says, but she doesn’t sound convinced. “A good start.”

“And thank you for looking after Sonny.”

Another shrug. “It wasn’t a problem. Let me know if you need help again.” She slings her bag over her shoulder. Flips her hair. “There’s food on the stove.”

“Thank you,” he says again. “I owe you.”

She fixes him with a hard stare. “Usnavi, it’s fine. Really.”

He doesn’t really know what to say to that—has _never_ known what to make of the way the whole barrio is so willing to step in when he needs them—so he settles for an inadequate, “okay. Have a good night.”

“You too,” Vanessa says and pulls her sneakers on before heading out the door.

As soon as it clicks shut behind her, Sonny’s door opens and a curly head leans out. “Is Abuela…?”

“She’s okay,” Usnavi assures him and then relays a version of what he told Vanessa.

Sonny nods, though he doesn’t look completely appeased. “Good, uh … can I stay in with you tonight?”

Usnavi carefully hides his surprise. Sonny hasn’t asked for that in a long time, which says volumes about how shaken he must be, and that isn’t something Usnavi is about to ignore. “Sure.”

Sonny stays seated at the table with him while he eats leftovers and washes up, then crawls into bed as Usnavi changes and brushes his teeth in the bathroom.

“You okay?” Usnavi asks after he’s climbed in next to Sonny and shut off the light.

Sonny’s breathing is loud in the quiet room. “…you’re not gonna leave me, right?”

Usnavi’s heart clenches sharp in his chest. “I … I can’t promise that, mijo _.”_ Because as much as he wants to reassure Sonny, he can’t lie. “But I’ll do everything I can to make sure that I stay as long as possible. I’ll never _willingly_ leave you, okay?”

“Okay,” Sonny whispers and scoots closer, into Usnavi’s arms.

Usnavi presses his cheek to the top of Sonny’s head and holds him until he finally drifts off to sleep.

It doesn’t feel like enough.

 

_ _

 

“Where are we going?”

It’s possibly the millionth time Sonny has asked that this morning, on a repetitive loop ever since Usnavi got him out of bed and hurried him through breakfast and onto the train. Like he thinks that if he says it enough, he’ll wear Usnavi down and get a different answer.

Ha.

“It’s a surprise,” he replies, same as every one of the million times before, and Sonny glares at him from his seat across the aisle.

“I don’t like surprises.” He backs this up by crossing his arms and slumping down into a pout completely unbecoming of a thirteen-year-old.

“It’s your birthday,” Usnavi counters, even though Sonny’s birthday was technically two days ago and they celebrated by closing the bodega early and having dinner and cake at Abuela Claudia’s.

Usnavi’s _big_ present had to wait until Saturday.

“Which makes surprises even _worse,”_ Sonny says.

Usnavi leans back in his seat and adjusts his cap. Even though it’s June, the sky is overcast today and the temperature took an unexpected dip, requiring jackets. Since the week before was fucking sweltering, Usnavi can’t say he minds.

“You’ll like this one.”

“You don’t _know_ that,” Sonny argues, stubborn to the last. He’s gonna be a real fun teenager, Usnavi can already tell.

“I definitely do. And this our stop.”

Sonny glasses at the window at the 79th Street sign and frowns. Usnavi can practically see the gears turning in his head and has to hide a smile in the collar of his jacket. He’s been planning this for several weeks, setting some money aside so that he could close the store for a day and have enough cash for admission and food and train tickets downtown.

“Okay _now_ can you tell me where we’re going?” Sonny asks as they exit the train and head toward the escalators.

“Nope,” Usnavi replies cheerfully, waving Sonny through the turnstile before following suit. “You can wait five more minutes.”

“You’re horrible,” Sonny grumbles. “I hate you.” He freezes as soon as the words leave his mouth and turns to Usnavi with wide eyes. “I didn’t mean that.”

Usnavi reaches over to ruffle his hair, just for the way it automatically makes Sonny scowl these days (though he never _actually_ protests). “I know. And consider this a lesson in patience.”

“From _you?”_

For _that_ he gets a flick on the forehead. “I’m plenty patient.”

“Uh-huh.”

It’s raining when they finally reach street level, but fortunately it isn’t that far of a walk. Usnavi still reaches over and makes sure Sonny pulls up the hood of his jacket. Sonny frowns up at him. “You, too.”

“I have a hat,” Usnavi says, but Sonny continues to glare until Usnavi sighs and pockets his hat in exchange for the hood. “Happy?”

“No,” Sonny huffs, but the corner of his mouth is twitching slightly so Usnavi is gonna count that as a win.

As they get closer to their destination, skirting along the edge of Central Park, Sonny’s eyes widen again. “Wait … are we goin’ to the museum?”

“Maybe,” Usnavi hedges, but Sonny’s face is already splitting in a delighted grin.

“We are!” He starts to walk faster, snagging Usnavi’s hand to pull him along.

Usnavi laughs and lets himself be dragged across the crosswalk and up the steps to the Museum of Natural History. Sonny, whose favorite subjects recently expanded to include history when a new eighth grade teacher got him engaged with it, had been devastated when he had to miss a class field trip due to illness. Though Usnavi’s ain’t got Miss. Sanchez’s breadth of knowledge on the subject, he hopes this will still make up for it.

“Okay, slow down,” he says when they reach the front door and get glared at by a security guard.

Sonny settles sheepishly, though he’s still vibrating with excitement as they step inside. 

Even though they’re approaching peak tourist season, they’re early enough that the line for admission doesn’t look too long. And sure enough, they reach the ticket counter within ten minutes. Usnavi forks over the money for two all access passes—one adult, one student—and collects a map and an event schedule from the information kiosk. Sonny is already gaping up at the massive T-Rex skeleton in the middle of the room, a look of awe on his face that Usnavi wishes he had a camera to capture.

“A’ight, mijo _,”_ Usnavi says, handing him the map. “You’re the guide today. Where’re we goin’?”

Sonny takes the map with reverent hands. “I take it back,” he announces. “You’re the _best.”_

“I know,” Usnavi says smugly.

They spend the next five hours exploring as much of the museum as they can. It’s even bigger than Usnavi imagined—four floors and exhibits about everything from gems to dinosaurs to global cultures. They sit through an IMAX movie on space that blows his mind a little bit and wander through the Scales of the Universe exhibit that blows it even more. Then there’s practically a whole floor of dinosaur skeletons and other ancient creatures that are both awe-inspiring and profoundly creepy. Sonny loves the vertebrae hall but Usnavi starts to get phantom shivers looking at all the massive things that used to walk the earth.

“Can you believe that this thing had a bite strength of up to twenty-five thousand pounds?” Sonny says, staring up at a model of _huge_ shark jaws hanging from the ceiling.

“Uh-huh,” Usnavi says. “Can we go look at something with skin on it now?”

Sonny rolls his eyes but dutifully leads the way down to the Hall of Reptiles and Amphibians, which honestly isn’t all that much better. Fortunately, they breeze through that pretty quickly and the Hall of African Mammals is way cooler.

It’s still an information overload and Usnavi quickly gives up on reading any of the plaques because trying to decipher the ridiculously long and complicated Latin names of stuff gives him a headache. Sonny, thankfully, seems to sense this and so starts rattling off random facts to Usnavi instead.

(“Did you know that the African elephant is the largest living land mammal?”

“Huh, rhinoceros means ‘horn-nosed.’ That actually makes a lotta sense.”

“Whoa, this sun stone weighs more than twenty _tons!_ ”

“Check out this cool chair! They carried the bride in it because her feet weren’t allowed to touch the ground after she was dressed for her wedding. _Sick.”)_

Usnavi barely retains half the information being fired at him, but it’s worth feeling a little overwhelmed to see Sonny so excited. Even three hours in, he’s practically bouncing off the walls and Usnavi has to force him to take a break for a very overpriced lunch in the museum cafeteria. Sonny inhales his sandwich and chips and then waits very impatiently, fingers drumming on the table and leg bouncing, for Usnavi to finish.

Usnavi definitely eats as slowly as possible, wanting to see how long Sonny can hold out before he erupts.

The answer is about three minutes, which is honestly better than he was expecting.

“Ay, dios mio _,_ please tell me you’re done? We still have two whole floors to cover.”

Usnavi finishes off his sandwich with one last big bite and speaks through his mouthful. “Okay, ‘m done.”

“You’re an embarrassment,” Sonny declares like that’s a normal word for a thirteen-year-old boy to use.

“Excuse me, who brought you here?”

“Still an embarrassment.”

Usnavi shrugs and throws their trash away. “Fine. Where to next, tour guide?”

Sonny consults his map, which he’s been marking up with a pen that a staff member gave him because he’s a little shithead that knows how to look cute. “Uhhh … forests! This way.”

Unsavi rolls out some of the ache in his shoulders and dutifully follows Sonny into the next exhibit, which ends up featuring some of the biggest tree trunks he’s ever seen in his life.

Two hours later, they’re both half asleep on the train home, leaning against each other.

“Happy birthday,” Usnavi murmurs, carding his fingers through Sonny’s hair.

“Thank you,” Sonny mumbles back, eyes closed. “Best birthday ever.”

Usnavi swallows down the sudden rush of emotion that floods through him. With it comes the creeping, tentative hope that maybe, just maybe, he isn’t so bad at this whole guardian thing after all.

 

_ _

 

**_2009_ **

****

It’s a pretty normal Wednesday afternoon, all things considered. School’s just started again after the holidays, so he’s completely _buried_ in homework but he’s at his usual spot behind the counter with his big headphones on to drown out the chatter of customers (and keep them from tying to talk to him). He’s halfway through his stupid math homework and Usnavi will occasionally tap him on the shoulder and point out a mistake he notices, sounding a little gleeful about it.

Sonny never gets mad because he _hates_ the look Usnavi sometimes gets when he scans over the rest of Sonny’s textbooks and says that he’ll have to ask Nina for help—mouth all twisted at the corner like he’s trying to make a joke outta it and failing. Usnavi _ain’t_ stupid, the homework with all of it’s ridiculous, unnecessary complexity is. How is interpreting a timeline about the development of political parties after the Civil War gonna help him in life? Or going through an in-depth analysis of crap books like _Red Badge of Courage?_

He often grumbles about this to Usnavi, but usually just gets a sympathetic pat on the back in return and a firm, “no, Sonny, you can’t quit school.” Which is fine. He doesn’t _actually_ wanna quit, no matter how much stupid homework he has to wade through before he graduates.

So, today’s a pretty normal routine, until Vanessa walks in. She’s started coming by a lot more often since she started working at the salon.  Sometimes she’ll lean over the counter and gossip with him, but she seems tired and frustrated today. She dumps Pepsi and a chocolate bar on the counter and Sonny watches in fascination as Usnavi scrambles to ring her up.

“Everything okay?” he’s asking with forced casualness that Sonny has never heard him use before.

“Yeah,” Vanessa grumbles, rubbing her forehead. “Just some shit at home.”

Usnavi holds up a hand to stop her from leaving and spins around to the coffee machine.

“Here,” he announces a moment later, holding a cup out to her. “On the house.”

“Oh,” Vanessa says, sounding surprised. “Thank you.”

“Anytime,” Usnavi announces and stuffs his hands in his pockets.

 _Dios mio,_ is he _blushing?_

There’s an awkward pause.

“Um, later?” Vanessa says, collecting her bag from the counter.

“Later!” Usnavi chirps and then gives the most awkward wave Sonny has ever seen in his _life._

_¡No me diga!_

Once the bell jangles, signaling Vanessa’s departure, Sonny sets his homework aside. He’s got _way_ more interesting things to focus on right now, even if he’s gonna have to approach this carefully.

Ah, who’s he kidding?

“Hey, you ever thought about askin’ Vanessa out?”

Usnavi turns to gape at him and his offended look would be more believable if he wasn’t still blushing. “Vanessa? Ha ha very funny.”

“Why not?” Sonny presses, hopping up to sit on the counter and ignoring Usnavi’s frown.

“Because she’s _Vanessa._ Nina’s friend. It would be weird. And I don’t like her that way.”

“Uh-huh,” Sonny says, making sure to pack every inch of disbelief possible into the two syllables.

Usnavi flushes again and ducks his head, wiping the counter. “Besides, I don’t have time for stuff like that.”

And just like that, all the humor vanishes and Sonny’s insecurities come crawling outta the box he always tries to shove them in. “Is that ‘cause of me?”

Because Usnavi gets up every morning and makes him breakfast and goes and works in the store all day, often coming up at eleven and collapsing into bed. Even on weekends. And the rare times he’s closed or gotten someone else to cover, it’s been for death anniversaries or birthdays or other stuff involving Sonny. In four years, he’s never seen Usnavi hang out with friends or go out on a date or do any of the things Sonny’s pretty sure are normal for a twenty-two-year-old.

But what twenty-two-year-old’s got a store and a thirteen-year-old to look after?

Usnavi looks up in open surprise. “What?”

Sonny picks a hole that’s growing in the knee of his jeans. “I just … when you’re not workin’ you’re lookin’ after me and … ‘m not draggin’ you down, am I?”

Usnavi slowly sets the rag on the counter and turns to face him. “Have I done something to give you that impression?”

“No, but … you’re tired all the time and you’re lonely…”

“I ain’t lonely,” Usnavi huffs. “I’ve got you and Abuela and half the damn barrio.”

“Doesn’t mean you ain’t lonely,” Sonny counters because sometimes, when he can’t sleep, he’ll peer out into the living room and see Usnavi just sitting at the kitchen table, drinking out of a mug and staring off into space—shrunk down from how loud and everywhere he usually is—and he always looks sad. The same way Mamá used to look sometimes, when she thought he couldn’t see.

“Mijo _,”_ Usnavi says, firm. “You’re ain't a burden. I took you in because I wanted to—”

“Bullshit,” Sonny snaps before he can stop himself and Usnavi winces and adjusts his hat.

“Okay, fine,” he says—expression hardening a little. “I was scared to death, okay? Had no idea what Mariana was thinking, deciding to let me take care of you. And I’ve been terrified a lot since—that I’m screwin’ this up and you’re gonna end up hating me for it. But, Sonny, I love having you in my life. I wouldn’t want it any other way. Cross my heart.”

He draws an X over his shirt for emphasis.

“I could never hate you,” Sonny says, before he processes anything else. Gotta clear that up.

“We’ll wait for teenager-hood to really set in,” Usnavi jokes.

“Usnavi…” Sonny needs this to be serious and after a moment Usnavi nods.

“Okay, thank you. But I’m fine, Sonny, really. With the store, there’s no time or energy for stuff like clubs and dating. Maybe someday, but for now I’m good.”

Well he _sounds_ convincing. And Sonny knows when to let sleeping dogs lie.

“Besides,” Usnavi continues, resuming his wiping, “it wouldn’t be with _Vanessa.”_

“Uh-huh,” Sonny says, managing to add even more disbelief than before.

Usnavi throws the rag at his head.

 

_ _

 

He keeps expecting it to get easier. Every year, he looks at the date and lies awake staring at his ceiling, waiting for the vicious ache in his chest to go away. It never does. Usnavi says that wounds heal with time. That if you let them breathe enough they can stitch themselves closed. But Usnavi still barely says a word in the days leading up to his own awful anniversary, like his soul has to leave his body to tuck itself somewhere safe, and even though he no longer falls into deep depressive episodes, the grief hangs from him like a shroud.

Sonny always gets angry. He wants to run, scream, hit stuff. It still isn’t _fair,_ no matter how many years pass, that she’s gone. That she’s never gonna get to see him go to high school, that she missed him becoming a teenager, that he’s gonna live more years on this earth without her in his life than the brief few he got to spend with her. 

Today the anniversary has landed on a Saturday, and he can’t tell if that’s better or worse. He hates getting up and having to go to school and be social and hold all of his grief and anger inside of him, trying all day to keep it from spilling out everywhere like poison. But at the same time, school is a nice distraction. School means he won’t lie here curled up in bed like he’s doing now, memories and thoughts all clanging around inside of him like a hundred bells.

 _No,_ he decides. He isn’t just gonna sit around all day and be sad. Mamá wouldn’t want that. _He_ doesn’t want that.

He gets ups and puts on his favorite hoodie—green and white striped, courtesy of Mrs. Rosario last Christmas—and his favorite pair of jeans. Fits his beanie (black, courtesy of Benny) over his head, and marches out into the living room. Usnavi is at the stove, fixing breakfast. Sonny freezes, surprised to see him.

“Nina and Benny offered to help with the store today,” he says quietly, giving Sonny an assessing glance. Trying to gauge his mood, probably.

“Oh,” Sonny says, just as quiet. He didn’t necessarily have a plan except _get outta the apartment_ but maybe having Usnavi along for whatever this day turns out to be will help. “That’s good.”

Usnavi dishes up eggs and toast, still moving a little wary. “If you wanna be alone….”

“No,” Sonny says immediately. Because Usnavi is wearing grief today, too. Usnavi loved Mamá, even if it wasn’t the same way as Sonny did, and that ties them together even more than blood. Usnavi _understands._ “No, I don’t wanna be alone.”

Usnavi nods and his shoulders slump with something close to relief. “What do you wanna do today, then?”

Sonny takes a seat at the table, mulling it over. “I … wanna have a good day.”

“Okay,” Usnavi agrees. “What does a good day involve?”

Sonny shrugs and picks at his toast. He always appreciates that Usnavi usually takes time to make him breakfast, but he isn’t hungry today. Usnavi’s plate is also mostly untouched. “I dunno. I just … don’t wanna sit around here.”

“Okay,” Usnavi says again and glances back and forth at their nearly-full plates. “Wanna go then?”

“Yes,” Sonny says, fervent. It feels like the walls are closing in the longer he sits here—compressing like that trash compactor scene from _Star Wars._

They bundle up in coats and scarves and boots because it’s snowing outside, which seems only fitting, considering it was snowing the day Mamá died and the day they buried her. He still hasn’t been back to her grave, not once in four years, and he feels guilty about that but he isn’t ready.

And it isn’t really like he’s running outta time or anything.

“The park?” he suggests to Usnavi out on the street.

“Sure,” Usnavi says and turns in the direction of Fort Tryon.

They spend the twenty-minute walk in silence, something that really only happens on this anniversary and the day Usnavi’s parents died. Like the grief somehow dries up all their words. The park is just as hushed when they reach it, blanketed in a thin layer of snow. They follow the winding paths—barren trees on all sides—until the sounds of the city fade completely and it’s just the crunch of their footsteps and the rhythm of their breath.

At the edge of the park, they dust snow off a bench overlooking the river and sit down. Sonny watches the cloud of air that forms with every exhale and tries to figure out what to say. The park helps, the space, but he still feels angry and heartbroken.

“You said it was gonna hurt less,” he blurts and hates how accusatory it sounds.

“I know,” Usnavi says, not calling him on his tone.

“ _When?”_

Usnavi laughs—a shattered, unpleasant sound. “I’ll let you know when I find out.”

Sonny scrapes a random pattern in the snow with the toe of his boot. “You know, Carla says that her aunt can talk to dead people.”

Usnavi gives him a sharp look. “Carla’s aunt is full of shit. The dead don’t talk, Sonny.”

Sonny shrugs. He didn’t really believe it, either, when Carla was talking about it the other day. And even if it _was_ true, he doesn’t really wanna take her up on her offer of a session. She meant well, he knows, but. His heart couldn’t take that. It’d be like losing her all over again, wouldn’t it?

“D’you think she’s watchin’ over us?” he asks. “She believed in heaven. Went to mass, when we could. You think she’s up there?”

Usnavi sighs, but some of the tension from earlier has bled out of him. “Maybe. My parents went to mass, too.”

He tilts his head back to blink up at the overcast sky. He’s not wearing his dad’s cap today—traded it for a wool beanie from Abuela instead—but he never does, on anniversaries. It’s too much, Sonny thinks. Reminders like that become daggers instead of anchors.

“D’you think she’d be proud of me?” Sonny asks, feeling suddenly small.

It’s been _hard._ And there have been fights at school and detentions and the times he’s lost his temper and yelled at Usnavi, even though he knows Usnavi’s trying. Hopefully she can forgive him all of that, knowing how much her leaving hurt. By dying, she became a storm and reduced Usnavi and him to rubble. They’re still picking up pieces and gluing ‘em back together.

“Yes,” Usnavi says and wraps an arm around his shoulders. “She’d be very proud.”

“So would your parents,” Sonny says, because sometimes Usnavi needs to hear these comforting things, too. “Super proud.”

“Thank you,” Usnavi says and Sonny pretends that he can’t hear the tears in Usnavi’s voice.

Before the silence can become too oppressive and full, Sonny decides on their next activity. “I think I wanna go light candles.”

“That’s a good idea,” Usnavi agrees. “My butt’s going numb.”

It’s kind of pathetic for an attempt at levity, but Sonny laughs anyway.

Father Carlos’s church on West 178th Street is nearly empty at this time of day, but there is still someone to greet them just inside the door and point the way to the prayer candles and the offering box. Usnavi drops a few dollars inside and picks up the matches—lights two for his parents, plus one that Sonny guesses is for Abuela Claudia.

“Since she’s always lighting ‘em for us,” he explains when he catches Sonny looking.

“Sounds fair,” Sonny whispers back and gets a crinkly-eyed smile in return. That gives him the courage he needs to pick up the matchbox. It takes three tries before he gets one to ignite, but he appreciates that Usnavi doesn’t step in to help him. He lights the one right next to Abuela Claudia’s and blows the match out before the flame can reach his fingers.

There is a whole rack of candles, taking up nearly the entire wall of the church, and a lot of them are lit. Each one represents a person that is being prayed for and that makes him feel warm inside.

“I feel like I should say something,” he whispers to Usnavi, afraid of disturbing the hushed reverence in the sanctuary. “But I don’t know what.”

Usnavi cups the back of his head. “I don’t think you need to say anything,” he murmurs. His eyes are bright, reflecting the candles. “I think she understands.”

Sonny promised himself that he wouldn’t cry today, but his eyes are flooding anyway. “I miss her.”

“I do, too,” Usnavi says and that’s comforting, knowing he isn’t alone.

They stand there for a long time, watching the flames dance on the candlewicks, and then Usnavi squeezes his shoulder. “Wanna go home?”

“Yeah,” Sonny decides. “Yeah, let’s go home.”

They thank the greeter at the door and step back out into the winter afternoon. It’s still snowing, immediately dusting their hats and the shoulders of their coats. Back at the apartment, Usnavi checks in with Nina in the bodega and then follows Sonny up the creaky stairs to the second floor.

It’s frigid inside, prompting Usnavi to run around turning radiators on and swearing under his breath, and then them sitting in their coats on the sofa until the room finally heats up. Usnavi turns on the radio that he keeps on one of the kitchen counters and flicks it to a hip-hop station. Turns the volume way up.

“I don’t wanna think right now,” he yells to Sonny over the din and yeah, Sonny doesn’t wanna think, either.

Much better to listen to Usnavi rapping, easily keeping up with the rapid-fire Spanish pouring from the speakers, and try out the sounds in his own mouth as they fix a late lunch, dancing around each other in the tiny kitchen.

 _(“Te canto con guitarra y me dices que es raro_  
_una cena con mariachi te lo hayas muy charro_  
_te invito pal cine y me dices que es payo…”_ )

They spend the rest of the afternoon in sweatpants watching dumb cartoons on the couch with a _huge_ bag of chips that Usnavi went down to the bodega to buy and it’s … not bad.

“So,” Usnavi asks him when the sun is setting, “good day?”

“Yeah,” Sonny says, putting a hand over his chest to check his heart. It isn’t aching nearly as much as it was this morning. “It actually was.”

_ _

 

**_2010_ **

_  
_ The seasons change. Sonny is marking the days off their calendar—messy Xs slashed through the square boxes - but Usnavi counts months in the world around him: the scarf he wraps around his neck and the crunch of winter snow beneath his feet; the tree outside the apartment that flowers in the spring (he collects some of the blossoms, like his mother used to, and puts them in a bowl on the kitchen table); the thick air of summer that rests heavy in his lungs and mouth.

And now the leaves exploding in a riot of color. He sits on the fire escape before dawn, clutching his coffee, and watches them break free from the branches and dance their way to the ground. In a little over two months, it will be seven years since his parents died. He tries not to think about it too often—is done holding onto the melancholy, even if he thinks the grief will never fade completely—but he’s in a contemplative mood this morning.

Maybe ‘cause Halloween is around the corner and the holidays never seem to be easy.

The floorboards creak behind him.

“You’re up early,” he says without turning around. Sonny climbs out onto the fire escape and plucks the coffee cup straight out of his hands.

“Hey,” Usnavi huffs in protest as Sonny takes a swig, “get your own. And you’re too young to be drinking coffee, anyway.”

“I’m fourteen,” Sonny says like that isn’t still a baby.

Even though he has a feeling that Sonny is gonna be taller than him soon.

Usnavi snags the mug back before Sonny can drink any more. “Still too young.”

“ _You_ started drinking coffee when—”

“Nope,” Usnavi cuts him off. “There a reason you’re up?”

Sonny shrugs. His hair is still more of a mess than usual and he’s wearing one of Usnavi’s old sweaters that is still two sizes too big for him. Usnavi absently reaches over and adjusts where it’s slipping off one shoulder.

“Couldn’t sleep. I think we should do something for Halloween this year.”

Usnavi’s gotten used to these non-sequiturs with Sonny, so he rolls with it. “Like what?”

Sonny fiddles with the hem of his sweater. “I was thinkin’ we could give out candy at the bodega? For some of the neighborhood kids?”

Huh, that actually isn’t a bad idea. “Okay. We might be able to use some of the surplus candy.”

“And we should dress up,” Sonny continues.

“…dress up?” He hasn’t done that in years, even long before his parents died. And while it was a ton of fun as a kid, he’s not sure he can see the appeal now.

“Yeah,” Sonny says. “We could go as pirates or somethin’.”

“Pirates, huh?”

“I’d totally make a good pirate.”

It sounds like Sonny really cares about this, though. Underneath all the exaggerated pouting. And Usnavi’s never wanted to dismiss things that Sonny cares about.

“Fine. Pirates it is.”

Sonny grins, megawatt, and steals Usnavi’s coffee again.

Of course, they don’t have any money for _actual_ costumes but Usnavi manages to scrounge up some eyepatches and borrows a few of Daniela’s scarves for sashes and lends Sonny a white button-up while he settles for a light blue one for himself.

“I need an earring or a parrot,” Sonny says as they examine themselves in the bathroom mirror.

“Not a chance,” Usnavi says as he adjusts his eyepatch.

“A beard, then?”

“If you can find me a marker.”

Sonny scrambles off to comply and Usnavi stares at his reflection, in all its mishmash pirate glory, and wonders how, exactly, this has ended up being his life.

He can’t really say he minds. It’s been good a way that sixteen-year-old Usnavi, lost in anger and grief, wouldn’t have been able to imagine. Hard sure, but also _good,_ and that’s what matters.

Sonny hurries back in, triumphantly holding a sharpie, and Usnavi spends the next ten minutes drawing a beard while Sonny perches precariously on the sink. It comes out ridiculous, but that’s the point, really.

“Awesome,” Sonny says, examining Usnavi’s handiwork. “How do you feel about a peg leg?”

“No.”

Sonny sighs. “Fine.” He puts on his eyepatch and lets Usnavi tie a bright orange bandana over his head (courtesy of Carla) before doing a slow spin and nodding. “Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.”

_ _

 

It turns out to be a roaring success, even if it’s a little overwhelming: a seemingly endless parade of sugar high kids and then half the block stopping by in between waves to tease him about his costume and steal candy. Nina insists on taking a picture and Carla dumps a bunch of Starbursts in her purse when she thinks Usnavi isn’t looking. Daniela reprimands them to take good care of her scarves even though she’s smiling. Benny eats three Milky Ways before Usnavi kicks him out for criticizing Usnavi’s beard drawing skills. Mr. and Mrs. Rosario bring candy down to donate. Sonny charms everyone in sight.

And Usnavi is happy.

“This was a good idea,” he says to Sonny as they climb back upstairs at the end of the night.

“I know,” Sonny mumbles, half-asleep on his feet. “I always have good ideas.”

“You rarely have good ideas,” Usnavi counters. “Last week you decided to try mixing seven different kinds of sodas together and made yourself sick.”

“That was an experiment. For science.”

“Uh-huh.”

Sonny elbows him. “Well you had a good time tonight didn’t you?”

“I did,” Usnavi concedes as he ushers Sonny into the apartment. “A very good time.”

“New tradition?” Sonny asks.

Usnavi ruffles his hair. “Yeah. Definitely a contender.”

“Good.”

“Good. Now go to bed, captain.” Usnavi gives him a gentle push in the direction of bedroom. “And wash your beard off.”

Sonny gives him a haphazard salute and stumbles towards the bathroom.

Usnavi shakes his head, biting his lip against a fond smile, and folds Daniela’s scarf up carefully on the table.

Yeah, he decides as he smooths his hands over the edges, he’s happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more to go! 
> 
> Comments are the greatest and make me warm and fuzzy inside. Or feel free to come chat to me on tumblr at [wobblyspelling](http://www.wobblyspelling.tumblr.com).
> 
> The song Usnavi is rapping is _Cola de Motora_ by Don Miguelito.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it, folks! Thank you everyone who has read and left comments and kudos. Y'all rock.

_“Home isn't where you're from; it's where you find light when all grows dark.”_

― **Pierce Brown, Golden Son**

 

 

_ _

****

**_2011_ **

****

“I don’t understand….”

Usnavi _hates_ parent-teacher conferences. More and more as Sonny gets older and he has to use that phrase increasingly often. This has to be a new record, though: four times in five minutes. 

From the other side of her desk, Sonny's guidance counselor smiles gently at him. He fights down the urge to bristle defensively. “Is Sonny in trouble?”

“No, Mr. De La Vega,” Mrs. Patel says. “Quite the opposite, actually. When I say that he’s not applying himself, it’s because he’s _bored._ School isn’t challenging enough for him.”

“But he’s in an accelerated learning program,” Usnavi counters, a sinking feeling creeping into his stomach.

“And it’s not enough,” Mrs. Patel says, blunt. “Sonny is very smart, Mr. De La Vega, and he needs an educational program that can match that brain power. That’s why I’m suggesting a transfer.”

She slides a handful of slick-looking brochures across the desk. Usnavi wipes his hands on his jeans before touching them, afraid to smudge them with sweat or dust. It’s the end of June and this summer has already been scorching. Even in lightweight tank tops and over shirts, he’s doing laundry twice a week.

But that’s not important right now. _Focus._

The brochures are for an academy downtown. He’s heard the name before—vaguely remembers the Rosarios debating about trying to send Nina there a few years ago—and from the pictures, it looks like an impressive place. One he could never, in a million years, hope to afford.

“Wow,” he says, internally wincing at how flat his voice sounds.

As she usually seems to during these meetings, Mrs. Patel sees right through him. “There are scholarships available, though they are very competitive.”

“For a full ride?” Usnavi asks dubiously and Mrs. Patel’s expression tells him everything he needs to know.

“Sometimes,” she hedges. “Though that is much rarer.”

He nods and now the indeterminate sinking feeling has solidified into a sack of bricks.

“It’s a great school,” Mrs. Patel goes on. “And it offers students incredible opportunities in the future. I really think Sonny would thrive there.”

So does he. That isn’t the problem.

“Thank you,” he says, still empty. “I’ll think about it.”

And he does, the whole bus ride home—Sonny chattering up a storm next to him. He reads the brochures back to front while he’s cooking dinner and Sonny’s doing homework in his bedroom. It’s downtown, on a big campus in the Upper East Side, and all the pictures are either of ornate, stunning buildings or laughing students. It looks like something out of a fucking film. And the section on scholarship information isn’t very encouraging: there are several available per year, but only three full rides with an incredibly competitive application process.

When Sonny emerges for dinner he’s got a wary expression on—the one he always wears when he wants to ask Usnavi something but isn’t sure how to broach the subject. Usnavi decides to beat him to it this time and sets the brochures down between them.

His heart wrenches as Sonny’s eyes light up. “What do you think? It’s an awesome place, huh?”

“Sonny,” he says quietly, pushing his food around on his plate, “we can’t afford it.”

“I know,” Sonny says. “But there’re scholarships and—”

“Even with those. You’d have to win a full ride. And you can submit an application, of course, but it’s a longshot. A _major_ longshot.”

Sonny deflates and the knife in Usnavi’s heart twists deeper. “Right. I know that, too, I just…” He cuts himself off but Usnavi can hear the rest of it clear as day.

_I just hoped._

“But it’s okay,” Sonny says, rallying himself quickly. “My current school ain’t that bad. I have friends there ‘n stuff and it’s not like I’m goin’ to college or anythin’…”

Usnavi looks up, startled. “What?”

Sonny smiles: a sad, terrible thing. “I ain’t _stupid,_ cuz. I know we’re not the Rosarios. And maybe I can get a full ride but it’s a longshot, like you said.” He shrugs, trying and failing to seem unaffected. “’S fine, though. It’s life, right?”

Usnavi nods and they go back to their sullen dinner, but the resignation in Sonny’s voice haunts him all through the evening and into the night. Keeps him lying awake, staring up at the dark ceiling of his bedroom. Because it _isn’t_ fine. Sonny’s supposed to have better chances than he did. Isn’t that the whole point of raising a kid? Of working and scraping and hoping—all of it so that they can go on to lead a better life than you have. It was Mariana’s dream from the moment she had Sonny. She always used to say that he was gonna do great things, even when he was a tiny baby cradled carefully in Usnavi’s arms. And when she died she passed that dream on to him and he’s _failing._

_ _

 

He starts the next day exhausted, thoughts still a turbulent mess. But by mid-afternoon, an idea is slowly taking shape.

Rosa. His father’s older sister. She lives in Boston in a nice house and she has plenty of money from years of working as an attorney. She never got along with his parents—believed that his father was foolishly wasting time and resources on a store that would ultimately fail while Santiago considered her arrogant and condescending—but she always liked Sonny. Even offered to take him after Mariana passed and was upset when Usnavi turned her down.

Maybe, just for a few years, Sonny could go and live with her? She could send him to a fancy, special school like the one downtown and make sure he gets into a good college. She could give him a _future_ other than inheriting a rundown store and a life of endless work. And Usnavi could come visit on the holidays, or Sonny could come back to stay with him in the summer. It wouldn’t be the end of the world. Boston isn’t that far.

It’s a good idea, even if it aches inside. He can’t be selfish about stuff like this—not where Sonny is concerned.

It’s a good idea.

 

_ _

 

It still takes him two more days to call. It’s Sonny’s last of school and the bodega has been quiet this afternoon—everyone staying locked inside in futile attempts to escape the heat. Usnavi leans against the counter with the bodega’s phone cradled in his hand and a scrap of paper he managed to unearth with Rosa’s number in the other. His hands are shaking and his heart is hanging out somewhere in his throat.

_Just dial._

He punches in the numbers and squeezes his eyes shut as the ringing starts, feeling like a child again. Rosa has always intimidated him and their relationship only soured further after his parents died.

She pointedly never offered to take him, probably because she knew he would have refused and there was no way she was moving to New York.

“Hello?”

He straightens at the sound of her voice and forces his eyes back open. Stares up at the ceiling instead. It looks like one of the fluorescents is on its last legs. He’ll have to get Sonny to help him replace it this evening.

“Rosa.”

“…Usnavi?”

“Hi.”

There’s a long pause, during which his own breath sounds thunderous in his ears.

“Well, esto es inesperado. I didn’t think I’d hear from you again after you decided not to invite me to Mariana’s funeral.”

“Lo siento,” Usnavi says, trying to keep his voice even. “I told you that was a mistake. Everything happened so fast and I forgot.”

Rosa huffs. “¿Qué quieres?”

“It’s about Sonny.” He chews on the corner of his thumbnail, wishing he could pace, but the phone cord doesn’t give him enough room.

“How’s he doing?” Rosa asks, softening slightly. She’s always liked Sonny.

“Good. He’s doing …” Usnavi sucks in a deep breath and decides to cut right to the chase, too impatient for these stilted pleasantries. “Actually, I was hoping you might be able to take him during the school year? He … he’s really smart and they want to put him in a special school but I don’t have the money for anything like that. I figured that with you he’d…”

“Actually stand a chance?” Rosa asks and the words are sharp enough to cut. Usnavi can practically feel them against his skin.

 _You were expecting this,_ he tells himself, but it doesn’t diminish the hot curl of embarrassment in the pit of his stomach.

“I was anticipating this, you know,” Rosa continues. “That’s why I offered to take him. You’re so young, Usnavi. You have no business raising a child.”

“I think I’ve done okay so far,” Usnavi snaps defensively. Like his father, he’s never been able to let Rosa’s barbs roll off his back, as well-intentioned as they often are. “It’s a money issue, that’s all.”

“Are you still trying to wring a profit out of that god-forsaken store?” Rosa asks.

Usnavi runs a hand along the countertop in silent apology to the bodega. “Yes.”

“You should sell it.” She told him that when he was sixteen and said the same thing to his father almost every year before. “You could come to Boston with Sonny.”

“I didn’t call for life advice,” he says, injecting as much steel as possible into his voice. “This isn’t about me.”

He doesn’t say it but _back off_ floods the undercurrent of the words. And Rosa listens. “You’re right, lo siento _._ I just worry.”

“Uh-huh,” Usnavi says, deadpan. “So about Sonny…”

“I’ll think about it,” she decides. “It’s a big change.”

Even though he suspects that she’s secretly wanted Sonny for years and it would just be a matter of airing out one of the several extra bedrooms in her house, he nods. “Of course. Entiendo _._ ”

“I’ll call you back in a few days with my answer.”

“Okay. Gracias _.”_

Rosa sighs and doesn’t hang up. “I know you don’t like me, but I want the best for him, too, Usnavi. I always have. That’s why I didn’t contest Mariana’s will.”

Usnavi’s hand curls tighter around the phone. He can almost hear the plastic creak. “I know. I appreciate that.” There isn’t any sincerity in his voice—he ran out of it a long time ago where Rosa was concerned. Ever since she pulled him aside after his parents’ funeral and expressed her concerns about Abuela Claudia raising him, refusing to see past her old age and her lack of a formal education.

Rosa, Usnavi thinks, sometimes so easily forgets where they came from. That their story isn’t that different from Abuela Claudia’s. Or maybe Rosa has worked hard to forget. Unlike his father, she’s never spoken of the Dominican Republic in all the years he’s known her, even to reminisce. It’s as though in her mind, the island doesn’t exist. She used to criticize Santiago for talking about it so often, asking him why he bothered to leave, then?

 _“Ever since she was little,”_ his father said once, “ _she's looked forward and nowhere else.”_

It’s served her well in some ways. Top of her class on the island. Got into a prestigious American college and went on to become an even more prestigious lawyer. But her life always seemed lonely to Usnavi—empty and cold just like her too-big house in her too-rich neighborhood.

“I’ll call in a few days,” she repeats now.

“Okay.”

They both hang up without saying good-bye. Maybe in some ways they are a little similar.

The bell above the door startles him out of his thoughts. Sonny is standing there, customary baseball cap on his head and backpack slung over one shoulder. He arches an eyebrow when Usnavi dumps the phone back in its cradle.

“Who were you talkin’ to?”

“No one,” Usnavi says quickly. “Wrong number.”

Sonny gives him an unimpressed look, but doesn’t push. “Sure. I’m orderin’ pizza for dinner. It’s too hot to cook.”

“Fine,” Usnavi agrees, trying not to show his relief. “Cash should be in the usual place.”

Sonny claps him on the shoulder on his way past and the back stairs creak loud as he bounds up them. In the silence he leaves behind, Usnavi closes his eyes and tries to ignore the guilt sour on his tongue.

 

_ _

 

She calls back the next Friday morning. July 3rd.  It’s only seven a.m. and Usnavi can already feel the air sitting heavy in his lungs and his undershirt sticking to the hot skin of his back. He nearly drops the phone with his sweat-slick fingers, trying to lift it from the cradle.

“I’ll take him,” Rosa says without preamble, and even though Usnavi knew this would be her answer, it still feels a little like getting socked in the stomach. “I can come down to New York next week to start the transition. He should go ahead and move up here so he can have some time to settle in before school.”

“Next week?” Usnavi echoes, stunned. For some foolish reason, he’d thought he’d have more time than that.

“That’s what I said,” Impatience creeps into Rosa's voice. “I know it’s sudden, but transfer paperwork will take some time and I want to show him a few schools before we decide which one would be best.”

“Of course.” He’s glad, at least, that she seems to want to take Sonny’s opinions into consideration. Not that Sonny would ever let her ignore them. “Of course.”

“I’ll book a flight after the weekend,” she continues, barely listening to him. “And let you know definite dates.”

“Okay,” he says, feeling like a broken record. “Thank you.”

“You’re making the right decision, Usnavi,” she says before she hangs up and he wishes he could be as certain as she sounds. The guilt is sharp now—bitter and pungent like the curdled milk in his broken fridge.

He sets the phone back in the cradle and wonders how on earth he’s gonna break this to Sonny. Carefully, is the only conclusion he reaches before he gets swept up in the morning rush: a dinner invitation from the Rosarios, Sonny late for the fifth time in a row, Daniela and Carla with the latest gossip, Benny’s teasing, and Vanessa.

Vanessa. Who has become gorgeous and confident in a way that makes all his words knot up and trip over themselves every time he tries to push them out of his mouth. Who makes his heart stutter fast and loud against his ribcage. Who crept up on him when he wasn’t looking and now consumes far too many of his thoughts. Who works right next door but might as well be an ocean away with how unattainable she feels—eyes on the horizon while he stays stuck to the ground.

_She looks forward and nowhere else._

Benny pressures him, Sonny tries to play matchmaker, but Usnavi knows that like Nina, Vanessa is meant for more than this neighborhood. She’s gonna sprout wings and fly away and he doesn’t dare ask her to stay.  He’s always been good at math and he knows that he doesn’t add up.

But Sonny gets bold today of all days. Sonny, with his charm and bravado that reminds Usnavi so much of Mariana, asks Vanessa out on his behalf and she says _yes_ and just for a moment, Usnavi experiences flight.

That elation carries him through the rest of the day, and what a strange day it is. Nina back home looking the same as always and yet so different. Selling a winning lottery ticket for ninety-six _thousand_ dollars—more money than he can even dare to dream about. But then suddenly it’s evening and he’s digging his good shirt and pants out of the back of his closet and Sonny is hovering in the doorway.

“Are you gonna tell me what’s up?”

Usnavi closes his eyes and tries to dodge. “What do you mean?”

“C’mon, you’ve been weird all day. And _don’t_ use Vanessa as an excuse.”

Goddamnit, Sonny knows him too well.

And now isn’t the time, but it’s been hanging over his head like a cloud all day and he doesn’t think he can hold it inside of himself anymore. Sonny won’t let him off the hook anyway.

“Fine,” he sighs and nods to the bed as he starts buttoning up his shirt. “Sit down.”

He’s been trying to write a speech all day, too, but there were too many distractions and the words wouldn’t line themselves up right so all he’s got are jumbled, half-formed platitudes and arguments that he doubts will stand up to whatever Sonny decides to throw at him. But maybe there is no good way to talk about things like this. Maybe you just have cut it open and let the blood spill.

And now he’s being melodramatic.

“Do you remember your Tia Rosa?” he asks.

Sonny nods, a wary expression on his face. “Yeah, sorta. She lives in Boston, right?”

Usnavi nods. Can Sonny hear how hard his heart is pounding? “You know, after your mom died she wanted custody of you.” Sonny’s eyes widen. “She called me up, after the funeral, and told me that I was making a mistake. Demanded to know what I was thinking, trying to raise a kid at eighteen and so soon after my own parents’ deaths. She could provide for you. Give you a more stable home life and access to better education. I turned her down. Insisted that this was what Mariana wanted and I was gonna abide by it. Thankfully, she backed off and didn’t take me to court because she would’ve won.”

Sonny’s wary expression is deepening. “What are you saying?”

Usnavi blows out a long breath and rocks back and forth on his heels for a moment to ground himself. Looks at the wall instead of Sonny’s face when he blurts out. “I think she was right.”

“What?” Sonny says in a very small voice.

“I was an idiot, Sonny.” He still can’t look at Sonny’s face. “I was stupid, thinking that I could provide for you. I can barely keep our heads above water.”

“I don’t understand,” Sonny says, anger creeping in now, cracking the words. “I don’t understand, what the _hell_ are you _saying?”_

“I’m saying that I think you should go live with Rosa.”

_“What?”_

“At least for the school year,” Usnavi continues in a rush, hoping desperately that he can make Sonny understand, even though he suspects it’s already too late. “You would still come back here for the summers.”

“You’re … you’re getting _rid of me?”_ Sonny hiccups, voice rising towards a shout. He pushes himself off the bed in one jerky motion—hands clenched into fists at his sides. “Do I get a say in any of this?”

“I’m _not_ getting rid of you,” Usnavi insists. “That isn’t what this is about.”

“Oh, come on,” Sonny snaps. “You’ve never wanted me.” 

“That is _not_ true. You _know_ that isn’t true.”

Sonny sweeps an arm out, furious. “How can I when you pull _shit like this?”_

“I’m doing this _for_ you,” Usnavi tries.

“It sure as hell doesn’t feel like that!”

“This is about your _future,_ Sonny. I’m trying to give you a better chance! A shot that I didn’t have.”

“By shipping me off to an aunt I don’t even know!”

“Who has money and resources.” Usnavi stalks out into the kitchen and scoops the brochures up from the table. “Who can get you into schools like this. Get you into _college._ You don’t wanna end up like me! Working over twelve hours a day in a rundown store, breaking your back just to make ends meet and up to your eyeballs in debt. You—”

“I don’t _care_ about a stupid fancy school!” Sonny snatches the brochures away and throws them into the trash. His eyes are shiny and wet with tears, but Usnavi refuses to give into the guilt gnawing at his insides. “You don’t have the right to decide shit like this without me!”

“I’m your guardian!” Usnavi shouts right back. “I have every right. I’m doing what’s best for your future—”

“ _Bullshit._ You’re pawning me off! You’re tired of me so you’re passing me off to someone else!”

“ _That’s not true!”_

“ _Fuck you_!” Sonny roars, shaking. “I’m not going!”

He storms past Usnavi and out onto the fire escape, slamming the window shut behind him with a loud rattle.

“Sonny…” Usnavi tries, rapping on the glass. “You can’t just shut me out.”

“Go away,” Sonny snaps, voice thick. “Go on your stupid date and _leave me alone.”_

Well. That went even more awful than he thought it would, but he knows when to pick his battles. And they both need some time to cool off. So he leaves, locking the front door behind him with unsteady fingers and fishing a bottle of wine out of the refrigerator in the bodega.

As he steps out into the stale, muggy night air the enormity of what just happened hits and he bites his lip against a sudden, traitorous flood of tears. He knew Sonny would be angry, but he didn’t think calling Rosa would be seen as a betrayal.

God, he really is the worst at this.

He wipes hurriedly at his cheeks as he hears Benny’s approaching footsteps. He rounds the corner wearing a white suit jacket that Usnavi doesn’t have the energy to tease him properly for and he’s frowning.

“Hey, you okay, man?”

“I’m fine,” Usnavi says and is surprised that his voice doesn’t wobble. “Let’s go.”

Benny squeezes his shoulder and they set off down the street toward the Rosarios. Hopefully a night dancing with Vanessa will keep his mind off what happened and the chasm he just carved in between him and Sonny.

_ _

 

Of course, because it’s been that kind of a day, Mr. Rosario announces that he’s sold his business and Usnavi’s gonna be losing half his customers, Vanessa spends half the night dancing with someone _else,_ Benny starts a fight, and the fucking power goes out. He practically runs the whole twenty blocks home, worried about Abuela and the fact that Sonny isn’t answering the phone. Fireworks burst overhead in explosions of color and sound that only make his growing migraine worse.

Why the _fuck_ isn’t Sonny picking up?

He tries for the tenth time and still straight to voicemail. Giving up, he dumps his phone into his pocket and breaks into a sprint, fueled by visions of Abuela falling again and Sonny somewhere alone in the chaotic night.

 

_ _

 

He barely registers the bag of cash Abuela presents to him when he finally makes it back to her apartment—no space in his already crowded brain from the events of the last twenty-four hours. Abuela winning the fucking lottery? Just throw it on the pile to be dealt with later.

Right now, he’s pacing a hole in her living room floor and draining his phone battery trying to get ahold of someone who might have seen Sonny. He wasn’t in the apartment and the streets are full of looters—the night punctuated by yelling, shattering glass, and the occasional gunshot.

“Why _the fuck_ isn’t he picking up?” he snaps when the phone goes to voicemail for what has to be the hundredth time.

Abuela watches him from the kitchen table, worry radiating from her, as well. “Have you tried the Rosarios?”

“Yes, no one’s picking up.”

He takes a candle and retrieves the baseball bat that Abuela keeps in her hall closet. “I’m gonna go look for him.”

Abuela nods. Doesn’t bother trying to convince him otherwise. “Be careful, _mijo._ ”

“I’ll be fine,” Usnavi assures her. He might not have the muscle mass that Benny does, but he knows how to swing a bat. And he's pretty sure that with the amount of adrenaline and terror currently coursing through him, he could take down at least ten looters like a much smaller version of the Hulk.

He’s two steps from the front door when it flies open, nearly hitting him in the face, and Sonny tumbles inside. He’s pale and shaking, but otherwise looks unharmed, and Usnavi drops the bat to fold him into his arms.

“Thank _god,”_ he breathes, weak-kneed with relief. “ _Dios mio,_ I was so worried. ¿Estás bien? ¿Estás herido? _”_

Sonny’s fingers dig into his back through his thin shirt and his voice trembles. “I’m okay, but the grate … I couldn’t get the grate down. The store…”

“I don’t care,” Usnavi assures him, resting a hand on top of his head. “I’m just glad you’re safe, mijo _.”_

“You, too,” Sonny says, muffled against his shoulder. “I’m glad you’re safe, too.”

Usnavi closes his tired eyes—exhausted down to his bones. It doesn’t matter, he tells himself. Sonny and Abuela are safe. Everything else can wait until tomorrow.

Things will be better tomorrow.

_ _

 

Today, Sonny has decided, is officially the shittiest day of his life since he got pulled out of fourth grade and sent to a hospital to be informed by a bunch of strangers that his mother had died. The store’s a wreck—glass and debris scattered all into the street and awning shredded. The power is _still_ out and everyone is slowly baking alive. Oh, and Usnavi had decided not only to ship him off to live with an aunt he doesn't even like, but to fuck off to the Dominican Republic for good. As everyone else dances in the street, Sonny stands in the shadow of the bodega and hates hates _hates_ how happy Usnavi looks, twirling Daniela around with a big grin on his face. Of course, he’s happy. He’s finally getting rid of the two chains that have been around his neck for almost ten years: the store and Sonny.

He can’t watch this, he decides. Not when he feels like either crying or throwing up. When it feels like his world has once again dropped out from underneath his feet and he’s in a free fall waiting to hit the ground. He ignores Pete’s concerned glances and the smile that he still kind of wants to punch off Usnavi’s face and runs up the steps to the apartment, since inside the bodega there’s still tons of broken glass they haven’t managed to sweep up.

The apartment is even more sweltering than outside, even after he cracks open all the windows to let a stale breeze in. He stands in the middle of it, this place that he’s called home for the past six years, and takes it in. It’s small: open kitchen and living room, with the two-seater table almost brushing up against the back of the couch. The walls are a pale yellow, painted by Usnavi’s mother years ago, and the floors a dark wood. The deep blue sofa has stitches in it, places where Abuela and Usnavi have sewn up holes. There’s a red patch on one arm from when Sonny accidentally burned a section away.

Pictures of Usnavi’s parents on the wall near the entryway. Mariana and baby Sonny right next to them and a much younger Abuela below. A vase of dried flowers in the middle of the kitchen table. A bookshelf full of well-worn volumes that Sonny has a read a dozen times, even the boring ones. A TV with a crack in the corner of the screen that they’ve both gotten good at ignoring. The Dominican flag hanging above the bathroom door.

It isn’t much, comparatively, but it’s _home._ Sonny doesn’t want to live anywhere else. Can’t even imagine it.

He likes his cramped bedroom with books piled on every surface and various posters pinned to the walls, featuring everything from space to movies. A bulletin board above his bed full of memorabilia: pictures of him and Usnavi, his mother’s rosary, a brochure from the Museum of Natural History, his first straight A report card, a sketch from Pete for his fifteenth birthday, as well as a card from Daniela and Carla.

He likes the way the wood creaks beneath his feet, being able to lie in bed and track Usnavi’s progress through the apartment just from the melody of the floorboards. He likes the plants they’ve started cultivating out on the fire escape. He likes the days when it rains and they have to hang all their laundry up inside—it feels cozy doing homework on the couch with blankets on all sides.

He runs a hand over the kitchen table, feeling the various nicks and scratches in the old wood, and tries to decide if he wants to yell or burst into tears. He’s heartbroken and furious in equal measure, that Usnavi has suddenly decided to take this away from him. That even worse, Usnavi has decided that none of this is worth keeping.

He ends up lying on his bed, sheets sticking to his skin, and staring up at the glow stars Usnavi stuck to his ceiling when he first moved in and was scared of the dark. _“Better than a nightlight,”_ Usnavi had said and he was right. Sonny still loves them.

He’s not sure how much time has passed when the door opens and he feels the familiar cadence of Usnavi’s footsteps. He doesn’t want to go out there, have another fight, but the anger is curdling in his stomach and he lets that drive him.

Only, Usnavi is braced against the kitchen table with his head bowed and his cheeks wet.

Suddenly, in spite of the persistent heat, Sonny feels cold.

“…Usnavi?”

Usnavi doesn’t look up. “Abuela Claudia … passed away.”

The words don’t register. They can’t be true. She was just … he saw her this morning. Helped her make breakfast before he went with Usnavi to start cleaning up the store. She teased him for burning the eggs and then showed him a better way to scramble them—patient as ever.

She was _just…_

“What?” he whispers, curling his hands around the back of a chair. His legs feel like jelly, unable to carry his own weight. “What happened?”

“Her heart gave out,” Usnavi whispers, still staring at the table. Each word is thick with unshed tears. “The heat and the stress … she never took her medicine. Why did she always refuse to take her _fucking medicine?”_

A sob breaks free and Sonny doesn’t know what to do or say. He thinks he should cry, he’s waiting on the tears, but just like with Mamá nothing comes. Only a numb, expanding emptiness. The walls closing in, the air getting thin.

“The funeral … we’ll have the funeral this coming week,” Usnavi continues and wipes a hand across his face. “Mrs. Rosario is gonna organize everything.”

“Okay,” he says and doesn’t ask what will happen after. If Usnavi is still getting on a plane as soon as Rosa has come to collect him.

But Usnavi keeps talking, more to himself now. “I … I need to call Rosa. Make sure she comes after the funeral….”

“You’re still going?” Sonny blurts out, anger momentarily overriding his sense of decorum.

Usnavi looks up, eyes wet. “Yes. It’s for the best, Sonny. You can … I’ll give you Abuela Claudia’s share of the money, for college and getting set up in Boston, whatever you need. And you can still come down to the DR for the summers, if you want. That’s … that hasn’t changed.”

Sonny shakes his head and oh, here are the tears. “I’m _not_ going, I already told you.”

Usnavi closes his eyes. “Sonny, please … I can’t do this right now.”

“I’m not letting you just ship me off!” Sonny snaps. “I … you _promised,_ remember? You said you would never willingly leave me and now you’re just runnin’ away!”

“Sonny…” Usnavi repeats, hoarse, but Sonny can’t stop the words pouring out of his mouth.

“I trusted you! And you’re leaving me to go sit on a stupid beach somewhere. How could you do this? How could you or Abuela Claudia decide on this without _asking me?”_

“I can’t do this right now,” Usnavi repeats.

“You’re all I have left,” Sonny presses, his own voice cracking now. “And you’re _leaving me.”_

Usnavi’s shoulders slump like Sonny’s cut all the strings holding him up. The walls are closing in and the air is thin and Sonny has to get out. He shoves past Usnavi and out the door.

Before it closes behind him he can hear the sound of Usnavi crying, but he doesn’t stop.

 

_ _

 

The guilt catches up to him a few hours later, when his legs are tired from walking and his eyes ache from tears that are still refusing to fall. An idea hits when the sun has set and he’s almost back home—a brilliant flash of inspiration. He meets Pete in the park, passes over a roll of cash and series of instructions. It isn’t much, probably, in the long run, but it’s something he can do.

What he _can’t_ do is go back to the apartment with its memories and its current grief and Usnavi. So, he stays up all night watching Pete work, passing him various cans as the mural takes shape. It turns out better than he’d hoped, as the sun finally starts to come up and reflects off brilliant colors—Abuela Claudia’s smile.

And he expected to impress Usnavi with it, offer it up as an apology for his harshness earlier, but he _didn’t_ expect it to be enough to change Usnavi’s mind about leaving. Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe Usnavi was already considering it and this was just the push he needed.

Either way, Sonny spends the rest of the morning somewhere in the clouds, making sure the news spreads through the whole block that Usnavi is staying. Everyone seems thrilled and hardly anyone seems too surprised.

The elation fades, though, when he comes home for dinner and Usnavi asks if they can talk. He’s got his serious face on and realization hits like a sucker punch.

“You still want me to go to Rosa’s,” he says and it isn’t a question.

Usnavi nods, fingers tracing nervous patterns on the kitchen table. “Yes. It’s … even with the money, Sonny, it isn’t enough. I can’t … _I’m_ not enough. Please, this isn’t because I don’t want you here, I just … you deserve more than I can give you. Than this place can give you.”

Well that’s dumb, but Usnavi is stubborn once he’s made up his mind. It’s a trait they share, a trait Mamá had, too. But if a mural managed to make Usnavi stay, then maybe…

He has one more hand to play.

“Wait here,” he says and hurries into his room, fishing around in the papers scattered across his desk until he finds the right notebook. It’s just a rough draft, but still. It might be enough.

_Please let it be._

“Okay,” he says as he steps back into the living room and stops in front of the table. He feels kind of like he’s making a class presentation. “So, we had an assignment over the summer, in addition to the usual reading stuff. Our homeroom teacher told us write a short paper talking about our biggest role model.”

“Sonny…” Usnavi says, eyes widening.

Sonny shushes him. “Just let me read, okay?” When Usnavi leans back in his chair with a slow nod, Sonny takes a deep breath and jumps right in.

“ _My role model probably doesn’t seem like a lot, from the outside. He’s not my parent and he’s not a celebrity or an athlete or an impressive historical figure. You know, stuff kids usually pick for this. He runs a bodega in Washington Heights. He’s there every day from sunup to sundown, serving the neighborhood. He knows all of their stories, even the ones they don’t tell him, because he’s good at reading people, looking between the lines to see the things they can’t or won’t say._

_“But that’s not really why he’s my role model. My mom died when I was nine years old and he took me in. He was only eighteen—three years older than all of us are now—and he’d lost his own parents just two years before. But he took me in because it was what my mother wanted._

_“And every day since then, he’s been there for me. He makes me breakfast every morning before he goes to work. He stayed up late all the time to help me do shit—_ I’m gonna edit out the ‘shit,’ obviously _—like make papier-mâché planets or put together volcanos for science projects. He helped me with my homework, even when he didn’t completely understand it because it’s complicated and stupid.  He made sure every birthday was special. He didn’t intrude on my grief for my mother, or try to replace her in my life. But he took a strange, small apartment in a new neighborhood and he made it a home. He made me feel like I belonged, like I was safe, and most importantly: loved._

 _“He’s brave and kind and_ smart _and he works harder than anyone I know. He believes in me and encourages me and does the same to everyone on the block. None of us would be anywhere without him, least of all because he serves the best damn—_ crap, gotta edit that one out, too— _coffee in New York. Even though I miss my mother a lot, I know I got lucky. I’m lucky to have him in my life and if I grow up to be half the man he is, I’ll be happy.”_

Usnavi makes a choking sound and when Sonny dares to look up from the notebook, there are tears on his cheeks.

“Don’t you get it?” Sonny says, desperation creeping in. “I don’t _care_ about fancy schools or better opportunities. This is my home. I just want this place. And you. All I’ve ever needed is you. You’ve got my back and we’ll figure it out. We’ll make it work. Even if I have to go to a community college first, I _don’t care._ Just … please don’t send me away or say that you’re not enough. You’ve _always_ been enough. I love you, I love the neighborhood, and I don’t need anything else.”

Usnavi blinks. “You … you really mean all that?”

“Of course, I do, idiota _,”_ Sonny huffs, exasperated. “I mean it so much I _wrote it down._ I coulda picked Eleanor Roosevelt or Martin Luther King, Jr. or Duarte or even _Nina,_ but, Usnavi, I wouldn’t be here if not for you. None of ‘em hold a candle. So, believe me, please, so we can never speak of this again?”

Usnavi laughs and wipes at his still leaking eyes. He looks stunned, completely blindsided, but in a good way. Like the mural from a few hours earlier.

“Okay,” he says and laughs again. “Okay, ven aqui _.”_

Sonny goes and lets Usnavi hug him. Leans down to bury his face in Usnavi’s neck.

“I love you, too,” Usnavi says. “Te amo _,_ please don’t ever doubt that. I just … I just wanted you to have the best life.”

“And that’s right here,” Sonny insists. “With you and Benny and the Rosarios and everyone else.”

Usnavi nods again and pulls back to kiss Sonny on the temple. “Okay, mijo _._ Point taken. I’ll call Rosa.”

“Nah,” Sonny says. “I’ll call her.”

He knows that Usnavi hates talking to Rosa on the phone, knows that Rosa often talks down to him in a way that makes Sonny’s blood boil. But she’s usually perfectly polite to Sonny, for some reason.

Usnavi visibly relaxes. “Gracias _._ ”

“No se preocupe _._ ”

He hugs Usnavi one last time and sits down at the table. “I’m sorry, too. For all that stuff I said.”

“No,” Usnavi murmurs. “You were right. I was running away.”

“But I shoudn’t’ve said it like that.”

“And I should have talked to you first, before calling Rosa.”

“Forgiven,” Sonny declares, reaching across the table to squeeze Usnavi’s hand.

“Forgiven,” Usnavi repeats, squeezing back. “And I promise: we make big decisions as a team.”

“Cross your heart?” Sonny teases and Usnavi solemnly draws an X over his chest.

“Cross my heart.”

A breeze flutters the curtains as it comes in through the open window, sweeping cool air across the room. Sonny thinks, in a moment of sentiment, that it’s Abuela Claudia, showing her approval.

Watching over them, even now.

_ _

 

He calls Rosa the very next morning, perched on the counter of the bodega while Usnavi reorganizes the shelves. She expresses predicted disbelief and throws lots of arguments at him: more space, excellent schools, no need to worry about new clothes or books or supplies. 

"No thanks," he says for the fifteenth time, looking over to where Usnavi is putting cans of Pringles in place and humming quietly to himself. "I'm good right here."

Rosa huffs, disappointed, but stops trying to fight him. Tells him to keep in touch before she hangs up. He makes empty promises and decides that he isn't gonna think about her for at least a couple months.

"Yo," he calls to Usnavi. "You're doin' that wrong."

 Usnavi glares at him. "I'm sorry, whose store is this?" 

Sonny grins, feeling almost giddy with relief. "Still doin' it wrong." 

"Then get over here and help me instead of just sitting around. What am I paying you for?" 

"You  _don't_ pay me." 

"I feed you," Usnavi points out. 

"Fair enough," Sonny says and hops down from the counter to take some of the Pringles. "Still think I deserve a raise." 

"Keep dreaming," Usnavi says. But he smiles, then, and ruffles Sonny's hair with his free hand. 

Sonny's blindsided by the tears that prick at his eyes from the well-worn gesture. Blinks rapidly in the hopes that Usnavi hasn't noticed. "Fine, but how many times do I gotta tell you, put the barbecue ones in  _front."_

Usnavi rolls his eyes, which is just as well-worn as the hair ruffling, and makes Sonny far happier than it probably should. 

"Fine," he huffs and passes Sonny the barbecue ones for him to arrange on the shelf. 

 

_ _ 

 

They bury Abuela Claudia on a Wednesday and most of the barrio crowds into Father Carlos’s church for the service. She’s right next to Mariana and this time it’s Usnavi who throws the first handful of dirt on the grave as Father Carlos murmurs “ _ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”_

After, Camila serves food to the whole block—everyone crowded into the Rosarios' apartment. Nina is flying back to Stanford on Saturday, Vanessa moves downtown in two weeks, and Daniela and Carla have already set up the new salon in the Bronx. It feels like everything is changing, but for now people eat and trade stories of Abuela Claudia—laughter and tears spread around the room in equal measure.

Halfway through the evening, Sonny finds Usnavi out on the fire escape, legs dangling off the edge and forehead resting against the cool metal railing.

“Hey,” he says, sitting down next to him.

“Hey,” Usnavi says with a faint smile. “You okay?”

“Yeah, you?”

Usnavi sighs. “Not yet.”  

“At least it isn’t snowing this time,” Sonny blurts and then winces because damn it, too soon.

But Usnavi laughs. “Yeah, though I wouldn’t mind it cooling down a little.”

"Tell me about it," Sonny huffs, fanning himself and really just blowing hot air around. Usnavi takes his cap off to wipe a hand over his forehead, hair sticking up comically in the heat. 

“We’re gonna be okay, you know,” Sonny continues, nudging Usnavi gently.

Usnavi glances over at him, arching an eyebrow. “Are we?”

“Yeah,” Sonny says and tilts his head back to look up at the sky. The stars are out tonight. “I have a feeling.”

 

_ _

 

**_Two Weeks Later_ **

Sonny glances at the clock and then over to where Usnavi is still wiping down the counters.

“Okay,” he announces loudly. “Your shift’s over. Go change.”

Usnavi frowns in confusion. “Change?”

“Yeah, put on something nice,” Sonny instructs, making a shooing motion towards the back stairs. “Chop chop. Vas ahora _.”_

“Why?” Usnavi asks dubiously.

Sonny throws his hands up in exasperation. “Just do it!”

Usnavi rolls his eyes, but dumps the rag on the counter and disappears up the back stairs. Sonny checks the clock again: five to eight. Good, he's still on time. 

Usnavi comes back down the stairs a few minutes later, wearing his good black and white shirt and black jeans, still frowning. “Okay, gonna tell me what this is about now?”

And Sonny couldn’t have planned this better if he tried. As soon as the words are out of Usnavi’s mouth, the door opens and Vanessa steps into the bodega, dressed in red again. Usnavi’s mouth drops open and Sonny doesn’t bother to hide his grin.

Vanessa looks back and forth between them. “Sonny didn’t tell you I was coming, did he?”

“Nope,” Sonny says cheerfully. “Why ruin the surprise?” He leans over the counter and gives Usnavi a nudge forward. “Go have fun, lovebirds. Be back by eleven.”

Usnavi pulls himself together enough to glare at Sonny, but Vanessa smiles. “Don’t worry, I’ll have him home on time.”

That makes Usnavi splutter and blush, but his eyes are bright and happy as he holds the door open for Vanessa.

Sonny watches them walk down the street from the bodega’s window—almost silhouetted against the setting sun. After a few paces, Vanessa reaches out and laces her fingers with Usnavi’s and Sonny’s chest aches from the sudden rush of happiness that floods in.

Yeah, he decides, today was a good day.

And tomorrow will be even better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are deeply appreciated, as always. Or feel free to come find me on tumblr at [wobblyspelling](http://www.wobblyspelling.tumblr.com). <3


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